


On The Inner Workings Of Non-Angels

by babybluecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel in the Bunker, Established Relationship, Fluff, Human Castiel, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8619382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/pseuds/babybluecas
Summary: The way it began couldn’t get more cliché: Dean kissing Cas in the rain as they turned their ‘goodbye’ into a bittersweet ‘see you soon.’ Three years later, Dean can hardly believe what his life has become: he’s a happy civilian, shacked up in the bunker with Cas. The whole messed up world seems to have left them alone, at last, and the worst things that ever happen to Dean are the rom-com marathons his better half tortures him with. Even Sam’s living his dream, back in law school.A true happily ever after for all.The problem is that those, in Dean’s experience, don’t last forever. So when Cas starts acting suspicious, with strange phone calls and daydreams and the walls of yellowed books rising around him, Dean has a full right to be worried. He’s no longer sure he could handle their perfect, little world falling apart.But Cas, of course, says everything’s fine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my amazing friend and beta [tco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tco) for all the support and for putting up with my whining.And for the cool title! This fic would have never happened without you <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Link to the art ](http://zombieboyairy.tumblr.com/post/153487983457/dcbb-art)

Their first kiss was soaked in rainwater and desperate. Simple substitute for the words that just couldn’t be enough on that grim, cruel night three short years ago. One touch of lips bearing an entire weight of their future – or so it still feels, more often than not. With each passing day it gets harder to imagine it starting any other way.

The storm had just passed over Lebanon, Kansas and the air was filled with ozone and static. The rain hadn’t yet stopped pouring, but the heavy wall of it outside the doorstep couldn’t stop Dean from rushing into the night. Shielding his eyes from the intrusive water, he cast his glance to the empty road on one side, then turned around. He breathed relieved; the dark figure was still visible, a moving shape near the end of the street.

The water soaked Dean to the bone within a heartbeat, as he sprinted through one, big puddle of a road. His clothes and his shoes weighed a ton, but he couldn’t give much crap about it, nor about the slowly creeping threat of pneumonia. All that mattered was that man, with shoulders slumped under his jacket rendered dark blue by the rain.

“Cas!” Dean called out to him, but the man didn’t even flinch. He kept wading through the gathered water that, like him, had nowhere to go. “Cas, come on, wait!”

Cas’s step didn’t waver, head hung low, fingers curled into fists.

“Cas!” Dean tried again, catching up to him. “What the hell are you doing, man?”

Cas didn’t so much as turn his head to Dean. The only indicator that he’d even heard him was a single word, weak, but not quiet enough to be taken for a roll of a distant thunder. “Leaving.”

“Leaving,” Dean echoed, his lips pulled into a twist. Of course, he could have expected that; take eyes off Cas for a minute and he’d be gone. Even without the wings. “Oh, so you just took off as you were standing, without a word.”

“I put on the jacket,” Cas said evenly. He sped up as the road turned away from the town. “I thought we’d said all there was to say.”

Dean had. He had said too much. And, apparently, not enough. But Cas had kept quiet and listened to the bullshit coming out of Dean’s mouth, to the excuses he’d paraphrased from the asshole angel he’d let into their home instead of the one he wanted there. It’s hard to blame Cas for sneaking out and never wanting to see Dean again, it was his right. Which didn’t mean Dean had to be okay with it.

“Well, a goodbye would have been nice,” he said, a little too demanding. But that wasn’t right; there would have been nothing remotely nice about a goodbye.

Cas stopped so abruptly Dean passed him a few steps. Finally, the man turned his face to him, soaked hair plastered to his forehead, eyes narrowed, jaw tense.

“You threw me out,” he accused, voice still calm, which frankly might have been the worst part of it all. “What else do you expect from me?”

Dean would have rather been yelled at, punched even, if that would make things better. Cas should have been pissed at his deception, the promise of safety and comfort and  _ home _ , when Dean had brought him in, across two states, just to throw him out.

But there wasn’t much anger in him, and what there was, he kept perfectly restrained. No, instead, what hit Dean much harder than Cas’s fist ever could, there was disappointment in the hunch of his shoulders, hurt in the tight line of his mouth and in every crease on his face. In his eyes, near black in the moonlight, blinking against the flooding cascades, there was nothing but understanding.

“Cas–” Dean began, but his voice quivered. It had nothing to do with the cold. He took a deep breath and tried again, “Cas, I said you can’t stay–” His chest tightened at the repeated phrase just like it had the first time around– ”I didn’t say you have to leave right away. It’s the middle of the night. Torrential fucking downpour. And you don’t even have any idea where you’re going, do you?” He waved his hand at the vast space ahead. “There’s nothing out there, for miles. You’re not trying to die again, are you?”

The last words came with no ease. Angel sword sticking out from Cas’s stomach, his face, lifeless but still warm in Dean’s palms; mere hours later it was still all too real. To die for the second time in one day would be Cas’s new personal record.

“No, I– I’d be fine,” Cas muttered, but his eyes wandered to the dark night stretching over the Kansas plains. “I’ll be fine,” he corrected.

“Sure.” Dean shook his head. His arms, crossed on his chest, didn’t give him much protection from the cold wind. Cas’s jacket didn’t seem to do much for the man either, though he tried his best to hide it, his body wouldn’t stop trembling. “And where’s your baggage? Some clothes for change?”

“I don’t have baggage,” Cas drawled the words, slowly losing his patience. He picked up his pace, again, still walking towards the big, wide nothing.

“You’re gonna need stuff, clothes, money, an ID,” Dean said as he followed. He shot his hand forward to grasp Cas’s arm. “Come on.”

“No.” Cas sprang away, pulling out of Dean’s reach. His mind had been set on wandering into miles of flooded fields. “I was doing alright before.”

Dean gave out a frustrated growl. “For the love of– Cas, don’t be a stubborn idiot. Come back inside. We’re both fucking drenched and I don’t feel like getting sick, do you? You don’t even know what a pain in the ass a cold is. You’ll stay the night, we’ll find you a hide-out. In the morning, I’ll drive you to the station.”

Dean spread his arms wide, even managed a small, encouraging smile, as he awaited the answer.

Cas took a step forward, but not to take up his offer. "Why should I endanger you and Sam another minute longer?” he spat Dean’s words back at him before turning away ostensively. “I'll manage without you.”

“But I won’t!” Dean shouted over the thundering of rain, the words seemed to resound with their vulnerability. He wrapped his fingers around Cas’s wrist tight, not to let him pull away this time. When he forced him to turn, Cas’s eyes stared at him wide. “I can’t let you leave like this, pissed off and unprepared, because I can’t risk you not coming back.”

As the clouds spilled the rain, so did Dean spill out his guts, his fucking heart to Cas. There was too much at stake to beat around the same bush over and over until nothing was left but misunderstandings and absences. Dean poured out the words that had been stuck in his throat for years, Cas still tipped his head, eyes narrowed.

“You want me to come back?” The disbelief in Cas’s voice had nothing to do with a surprise. It reeked of skepticism.

Dean’s arms dropped to his sides. Maybe it was his fault, in his words that were always too little and too late and too often taken back. Maybe his words would never have any worth again.

"Of course!” Dean still tried, stepping closer. “Of course,” he repeated, this time softer, turning their personal bubbles into one, so the rain couldn’t disturb them. “You’ve no idea how much I want you to stay.” His fingers touched the cold, wet skin of Cas’s palm and it didn’t even try to escape him this time. “How much I  _ need _ you to stay.”

“But I can’t,” Cas finished for him and turned his head away.

With his free palm Dean cupped Cas’s face, guided it back. He had to have Cas’s eyes fixed on his for this. His thumb rubbed against the stubble on Cas’s cheek. The first time he’d held his face like this had seemed like the last time. Now it was here again, cold and pale, but alive. How many more chances would Dean get?

“I swear to you,” he said, the other palm rose to frame Cas’s face, “as soon as Sam feels better–”

He didn’t finish the sentence, not with words. He lowered his head, instead, to close the space between them. His lips found Cas’s wet lips. They pressed gently, at first, afraid Cas would flutter his wings and disappear. But he couldn’t. And he didn’t run away either. His cold mouth responded to the kiss, accepting the promise that it sealed.

A promise of home Cas would have in him, with him. A promise of this being just the beginning, of many more kisses to come for how long Cas would want them. And more, so much more.

A promise that, somehow, Dean managed not to break; one he still keeps, to this day, almost three years later, when Cas’s wet kiss tastes of mint toothpaste and his damp beard smells like soap.

“Mornin’,” Dean mutters against his lips, twisting his free palm into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Bacon sizzles cheerily on the pan behind him, but he’s just turned it over, he can give himself a minute for savoring the moment.

Cas’s movements, slow and lazy, betray his late night shenanigans in front of a screen. His heavy arms climb up Dean’s thighs to his waist and wrap around it, his eyelids remain shut when Dean pulls away. It’s rare that Dean is up before the guy, but it’s also rare that he wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asks, swiping the strand of wet hair away from Cas’s eye. “When’d you come to bed?”

Cas lifts his hand to cover a long yawn. “Too late, apparently,” he answers. Dark circles underneath his eyes speak of regret. He reaches for the empty mug on the countertop. “A cup of coffee and I’ll be good.”

Dean is first to grab the mug and he slides it out of Cas’s reach before his fingers can even graze it. “I’ll fix you a cup once it’s ready. Sit down, sleepyhead,” he orders and goes back to the breakfast that is frying on the stove.

“Thanks,” Cas mutters and flashes him a smile on his way to the table. There's a scrape of the chair against the floor and a soft thump as Cas plops down on it. “We don’t have any plans, right?”

“When do we ever have plans,” Dean grumbles, stirring the eggs. He makes sure they’re perfectly balanced on the line of still practically raw but without the risk of salmonella before scooping half of them and dumping on a plate. His will have to cook a bit longer to actually look like scrambled eggs. “You can still catch some zzzs after breakfast.”

As Cas accepts the plate his head still cranes towards the brewing beverage on the counter. Its scent slowly fills the air, adding a strong, bitter note to the greasy smell of bacon.

“Maybe later,” Cas agrees and stuffs his mouth with eggs. “I’d rather spend some time with you, first.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

“That’s a new one,” he mutters, pulling the jug out of the machine. He glances to Cas as he pours, but nothing in the guy indicates he heard him. “Does grocery run count as spending time?” Dean asks louder, reaching for the cream for Cas’s coffee. The fridge presents to him its sad, empty space. “We’ve gotta stock up for tomorrow.”

Cas groans. “Alright.”

He snatches his cup as soon as Dean sets it down before him. At least he’s got some common sense to blow at the scorching drink before taking a sip and spares Dean hours of listening to him whining about his burned tongue.

At the very taste of coffee, Cas’s face brightens with pleasure, making him look a little bit more rested before the caffeine can even get his heart pumping.

“Are we picking Sam up in Hastings or is he coming by car after all?”

Dean nods, chewing down the piece of bacon. Not to pat his own back, but he should really consider becoming a professional cook.

“Yeah, we are,” he says, finally. “It's much cheaper this way, I guess, since he’s coming alone. I keep telling him to bring that girl of his over, but all I get is excuses. You think there’s something wrong with her? What if she’s a demon? Again?” He gives out a long, pained sigh.

Sure, in most cases it was not Sam’s fault that the women he fell for turned out to be some of the things they’d hunt. What with the werewolf or the kitsune or what else. The poor kid just has had a lot of bad luck.

But then, with an ex-angel for a partner, who is Dean to judge. Of course, that is totally different. This is Cas, not a murderous beast.

“Maybe they simply decided it’s too early on in their relationship to meet Sam’s family?” Cas supplies. “It’s a rather serious step.”

Dean snorts. “Come on, it’s just the li’l, old me. Wait, do you think it’s about me? The kid’s ashamed of his grumpy, older brother? Let’s hope this time he mentioned to her he even has a brother,” he adds after a moment. He thrusts a spoonful of eggs into his mouth but continues, ”An awive, whah we a’ it, hank you ve’y muh.”

Cas shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he assures Dean, resting chin on a curled fist. “It seems to be almost like a rite of passage for a couple. And very nerve-racking too.”

“How d–?” Dean starts, but doesn’t finish the question. He already knows the answer, doesn’t he. “Dude, you can’t base your views on the world and people on what you see in rom-coms,” he reminds him. “I mean look at us, don’t remember meeting the family milestone.”

“Sam had known me, and my brethren had known you, long before we became lovers,” Cas lectures him patiently, as if he’s an actual expert in social interactions. “That’s a perk of being friends first, then falling in love.”

The corners of Cas’s mouth curl up in a dumb, adorning smile of his, the soft stare fixes on Dean’s face from beneath the heavy eyelids that droop sleepily despite the put up resistance.

“Good to know there is a pattern we fit,” Dean sneers, scraping the remainder of the eggs off his plate. “You wanna compare my life, our lives, to a movie, try horror. Or a drama, dark comedy, something like that. Hell, even a slice of life romance, if you will.”

Dean has no idea if the last one is even a thing. It would make for a fucking boring movie. It feels much better being lived than watched. He knows, he’s lived it for over a year now, two if he adds light horror of the simple hunts before they dropped those too. It’s the best fucking genre Dean could ever wish to be in. But he probably shouldn’t have said it out loud, not now when it’s already starting to feel like he’d jinxed it.

At the last thought, something turns in his stomach. No, he must be overthinking. Just this look on Cas’s face, the warmth, the love painted in every crease, it should be enough to ensure him that everything’s fine. It’s only been, what? Two days?

“Rom-coms are too contrived, even for us. And ludicrous,” he adds.

He waits for Cas’s comment, for a sincere appreciation of Dean being a sap, or for a disapproval of his last sentiment paired with the defense of the fine artistry and entertainment value or whatever of the rom-coms.

But there’s nothing. Cas remains still as a stone, his lips don’t move, his blissful expression doesn’t wash away to turn into an annoyed frown. The guy’s no longer with him, except for the body. His palm’s still wrapped around his mug, his mouth is still frozen in a smile that forgot to fall away as he zoned out. Only he doesn’t gaze at him anymore, the focus of his stare shifted to somewhere far behind him.

“Go to bed, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean says, sipping his coffee. “For the record this is how boring you sound when you talk movies,” he adds, slightly offended.

Cas blinks, lazily, but doesn’t move.

“Hey, you there?” Dean snaps his fingers right in front of Cas’s eyes. “Earth to Cas, do you copy?”

“Huh?” Cas’s eyelids flutter rapidly, head perks up. “I’ve heard every word,” he says quickly, still battling for his focus to return.

“Yeah, sure.” Dean shakes his head and Cas sends him an apologetic smile. “So what did you waste the whole night on? Please, tell me you didn’t have a rom-com marathon ‘til ungodly hours.”

“I did not, don’t worry,” he replies like the very idea is unthinkable, though not for the reasons Dean’d consider, like Cas’s health, for one. “I wouldn’t want you to miss the next few movies I have planned.”

Dean holds back a whine. That one would actually be the only good thing to come out of Cas’s allnighter. But getting excluded from that party sure isn’t in his cards. It would be the most comforting option too.

“How gracious of you,” he grumbles instead.

Cas thumbs the ridge of his cup, ignoring Dean’s disaffection. “I was thinking about watching  _ What's Your Number? _ next.”

For a moment Dean watches Cas clean a coffee smudge off the porcelain then stuck the thumb into his mouth to lick the taste off. He sighs, defeated. It’s not like he’s got much choice on the matter. A deal’s a deal: on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays Netflix queue is all Cas’s. That’s the price he’s still gotta pay for a chance to teach Cas what a real cinema is. At least the warm evenings spent holed up on a sofa aren’t so bad, and he drifts off most of the time, head rested on Cas’s lap, the man’s fingers playing with his hair and lulling him into a half-dream. 

“Alright,” he says, “but, for the record, I only agree because it’s got naked Chris Evans in it.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “Naked Chris Evans?” he echoes.

“He’s Captain Am–”

“I know who Chris Evans is,” Cas cuts him off and he doesn’t need to say it for Dean to know it’s the other part of ‘naked Chris Evans’ Cas is concerned about.

“Aww, you’re jealous, how adorable,” Dean teases. “Don’t worry, he’s got nothing on you, babe.” He flashes him a toothy smile, but drops it for a pout. “Though I might change my mind if you keep dodging my question.”

And me, he thinks, but doesn’t say it. He’s not that clingy or desperate.

Cas shrugs. “I wanted to consult something with the internet and I got carried away. I didn’t feel tired at all.”

Dean leans in closer, over the table between them. His instincts haven’t yet dissolved, they took too long in building to wither in a year and some.

“Research?”

It would make sense, investigating, building a case, gathering resources, spells, weapons. A time insensitive hunt, an abandoned mansion, maybe, one of the legendary ones, that’d be cool. That’d be the best case scenario, even though it’s been good eighteen month since they decided to go out of business, and somehow it’s not Dean who breaks the deal first.

“It’s okay if it is,” he adds, in case Cas gets it to his head to hide it.

Cas shakes his head. “Just something I got curious about. I had no idea it was so late.”

Of course, that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it. Dean holds back a disappointed sigh as he eases back in his chair.

“Yeah, that happens,” he smirks, but he can’t help a little tease, “Looking at jobs in Cali?”

Cas’s shoulders slump, eye turned heavenward. There’s a “no” dancing on his lips, but at last he decides the matter isn’t even worth wasting words. He stands up, instead, gathers their plates and carries them to the sink.

Behind his back, Dean’s knuckles tap against the tabletop, the corners of his lips fall

“So,” Dean drawls the word to get Cas’s attention back, “half the day yesterday you were also just surfing the net for no particular reason?”

Cas doesn’t answer right away. He puts the dishes into the sink and opens the tap to wash them.

“Mostly, yes.”

“Hm. And the day before that, too?”

“Yes,” Cas repeats and turns to him sharply, dish soap foam dripping off his hands to the floor. “Dean, I don’t have a case, if I did, I would have no reason to hide it from you.”

He seems annoyed, rather than pissed at Dean’s questions. And maybe a little weirded out at the sudden interrogation. And the tension in his shoulderblades, only there for a second, just before he turned, Dean must have imagined it.

“Okay,” is all Dean says.

He doesn’t mention the chilling worry creeping up his spine, a little higher, a little colder every day that they live their apple pie life, no monsters, no angels, no apocalypses. He doesn’t mention the nagging voice in his head saying that nothing good lasts, not in his life, that it’s been too long already. That this is not a happy ending, just an intermission. The calm before the storm. He’s lived those, he knows how they go. He knows how much harder it hurts when everything good he’s managed to scramble for himself falls apart.

And it’s never been this long, so long he almost let himself believe it would be forever this time. Sam back in Law School, he and Cas both alive and happy. So fucking happy. No death, no betrayal, no fear. For two years.

It’s never been this long and he’s not sure he’ll survive it this time when it all comes crashing down on him.

“Is that what you want?”

Dean’s head jerks up back to Cas wiping his hands with a dishtowel. His expression completely neutral.

“What?”

“A hunt,” Cas replies. “Is that what you want?”

Dean clenches his jaw and relaxes it right away. “Yeah, sure, I do nothing all night but clean my guns, just wait for those nasties to pop up,” he snarks. He takes a breath and much softer he adds, “You know damn well that’s the opposite of what I want.”

Cas throws the cloth on the counter and walks over, towers behind Dean.

“I do.” His voice softens. He leans in, his palms cupping his face, caressing his cheek. His skin, still damp, smells like chemical proxy of lemon. “I love you,” he breathes into Dean’s hair.

Dean closes his eyes, dares not move under the touch, so warm and safe and, for now, right here. He hopes Cas’ll never let go. And then his hands draw away.

“So I can still use the laptop, right?”

Dean needs a second to understand his words, the change of topic, the change of the moment so sudden.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, great,” Cas chirps and leaves his space entirely to grab his coffee before heading towards the door.

“What happened to spending ti–” Dean begins but cuts off short. Cas is already gone with the drum of rushed footsteps fading with distance into silence that Dean fills with a rhythmless tapping of his fingertips. “Love you too,” he murmurs to no one then washes down the sweet taste of words with a bitter sip of coffee.

 

Pulling Baby out of the garage and driving her to the gas station is more work than it’s worth it, they could tank her on their way tomorrow, but Dean’d rather know how much money he’s got to spend on food. He only fills the tank enough for a trip to Hastings and back. It still eats up much more cash than he’d like. He never used to care much for fuel prices when he paid for it with plastic.

The next stop is the store. He only drops the essentials to the cart, adding up the prices in his head. The third pass through the same aisle has him wishing he had made a shopping list beforehand. Stuck for two minutes between Cheerios and Fruit Loops, he pulls out his phone and dials Cas. It would have been much easier if Cas didn’t go M.I.A for most of the day. After five dial tones, the call goes to the voicemail. Dean throws a box of Fruit Loops into the cart. Cas isn’t answering, he’ll be eating what Dean buys him.

He moves to the checkout when the contents of the cart start to look decent but not yet, according to his calculation, above his budget. The last thing he needs is a humiliation of putting stuff back because he can’t pay for it. Being forced into a half-assed role of a honest to God citizen has more downfalls than he anticipated. It’s much harder than he thought to find a job without an address. He hasn’t felt this freaking poor since he learned the workings of credit card fraud and pool. Of course, the latter requires putting some in before gaining some and the earlier they no longer do. Not here. Even Dean isn’t stupid enough to burn this bridge like that.

But it’ll only be for a few days more, Cas should cash in for his Spanish and French tutoring in a few days and Danny begged Dean to take a look at his Dodge’s engine over the weekend. They’ll manage, like they always do. If only Sam were coming the next week, instead. But then, Dean can’t be picky, he should consider himself lucky the kid wants to spend the spring break with his older brother rather than party with his girlfriend and new buddies. It’s been months since the New Year’s already, and he’s not sure he’d make it okay until summer.

As he lays the contents of his cart on the counter, the cashier, Vera, smiles at him from under her heavy bangs. She small-talks him as she always does, about the party he must be cooking and how perfectly her Vespa’s been working thanks to him, but Dean’s eyes keep slipping to the growing, red numbers.

Luckily, as it turns out, his math is nearly flawless.

“Add these, too,” he says, grabbing a pack of sour jellies from the impulse area. “Cas loves them.”

The change jingles in his back pocket as he carries the bags to the car. He parks outside the front door, there’s no use in stuffing Baby back inside for one night.

“Cas, got you something!” Dean announces from the very entrance, but there’s no answer coming from below.

He shakes off his boots and wiggles on slippers. A little too eager to see the grimace twisting Cas’s face as he stuffs those little, candy-shaped nightmares into his mouth, he scoots downstairs just to be met with an empty room. He drops the key to the bowl and starts to the kitchen. He checks in the tv room, listens in for the sounds from the library on his way. He’s probably in the other wing, bedroom, maybe. Though, going by the last few days, Dean’s best, pessimistic bet is on Cas’s room.

Dean dumps the bags on the counter, a little too loud, and makes it back to the fridge empty-handed. The sheet of paper pinned to the door with a magnet says Cas’s got no tutoring today, just as Dean had thought. And Cas’s sneakers were still standing by the door when Dean entered, too. It doesn’t mean he didn’t dig out his dress shoes from the closet, or shut the door behind him in just his fluffy slippers.

It sounds like a bit of a stretch, though, both the slippers and shutting the door from the outside, without the key in his hand. Cas frets a lot when it comes to the issue of the key. It’s that kind of a risk an automatic lock carries; a little miscommunication, accidentally leaving the key inside when they’re both out – game over. There’s no locksmith or a lockpicker who could remedy that.

Dean should definitely mention the next time they touch the touchy subject. It wasn’t that big of a problem in the past when, with Kevin, Charlie or Claire staying with them in various combinations, there was always someone inside. But now when it’s only the two of them, they have to be careful. They coordinate their trips, keep the key always in the bowl by the stairs. Cas would probably call just to make sure if Dean has the key.

Well then, Cas’s room it is, Dean decides, resigned, as he begins unpacking. He’s spent more time in that room within this week alone than he’s had since he first called Dean’s bedroom theirs. Dean’s not entirely sure if it only started on Tuesday or if it’s been going on for a while now, to a lesser extent. Maybe he’s been slipping into the room when Dean was busy and coming out before Dean would notice his absence. But then the absences became longer, he’d lock himself in the room for hours at a time and sneak out only for the meals and sleep sometimes.

Sure, it’s only been a few days, and Dean might be overreacting, but in Dean’s experience a few days is more than enough to majorly fuck everything up. After two years more perfect than anything in Dean’s life could ever be, it sometimes feels like a second would be enough. One bad word, one bad choice. Good times never last this long.

And it’s been gradual too. Dean knows not because he’s counting the minutes ticking away when he has to keep himself busy with telenovelas and games cluttering his phone. He knows because of the growing, underlying silence of the Bunker, the quiet impenetrable by chiptune and the most dramatic of words cried out in Spanish. Each day, a little bit longer than before, a little bit heavier, it’s been draping itself over his bones like mold.

If Cas just brought the laptop with him to the tv room, Dean would never even notice more and more hours going by when Cas’s eyes are on the screen, his fingers typing away. As long as the clicking of the plastic keyboard reached Dean’s ears. He wouldn’t even have to talk; just breathe, just murmur under his breath, just patter his fingertips against the keys. Just be. Isn’t that what old married couples do in the twenty-first century? Or, well, non-married couples, in their case, and not that old, either.

But no, not Cas. Cas must make whatever he’s doing into a big secret, while still claiming he’s just lurking around. Like that doesn’t stink of a lie from a mile away. It takes all of Dean’s willpower to keep every last silent alarm in his head from going off, as he’s left alone in the empty rooms, empty corridors. In the quiet that he once grew to know too well, hoped he’d never be grazed by again.

It was only three days, but each hour of them seemed to stretch like they did in Hell. The absence of a single living soul but Dean’s turned the Bunker vast and deathly silent. Its motionless air spread wide below the ground, smothered Dean, seeped into his head through his ears, crawled beneath his skin. It lain heavy on his lungs and choked out every last bit of the love Dean had had for this place.

His home. The first real home he’d had since he’d been four. One that couldn’t carry him through the net of highways and backroads, but had waited for him when the drive put a strain on his back, his eyes and his head. It had been a balm on the wanderer’s old, tired soul. Now, with each hour it was becoming more like a tomb. One of his own making.

Cas had departed, because the angel had said so and Dean had listened. Crowley, Dean had let go to regain the control over Hell and wage war against Abaddon. Kevin, forbidden the revenge for his mother, had left bitter on his own accord.

And now Sam. The angel Dean had let into his brother’s body – Ezekiel, Gadreel, whatever else his name was really – showed his true face when Dean least expected it. That was Dean’s mistake, ever thinking he could trust the creature the slightest bit. He would fight if he ever had a chance. A flick of a wrist was all it took for Dean to rise and fly like a puppet, across the room, through the wooden shelves of books. The last thing Dean heard were steady steps, fading with the distance and a ramble of the door shut behind the kidnapper.

It took him what felt like an hour to crawl out of the ruin. It took ages to find any information on how to track and eject Gadreel, before Dean could leave the fucking trap. And there was no one there to make a sound, to talk, to shuffle around, to breathe.

There was only Dean and Dean was not enough to fill the Bunker. Whatever vinyl he put on the gramophone, be it Fitzgerald or Zeppelin, the melodies that flowed through the empty space, echoed back to him eerie, raising hairs on his neck like in cheap, scary movies. And when he turned the music off, he had his own inhales and exhales drawing all of his attention, the automatic rhythm getting lost as he struggled to manually regain it.

As soon as his body stopped moving, he could count his own heartbeats. So he never stopped moving. Like a hurricane he rushed among the library’s splintered shelves. His hands never idle, flickered through the pages seeking the way to get his brother back. At last, he found all the spells and all the sigils and he was free to jump into his car and follow the fucker. As he stepped his foot outside of the door, his every fiber whispered how much he never, ever wants to go back in there.

Of course, he went back. It took Dean a few weeks to hunt Gadreel down and get rid of. It wasn’t easy: in the meantime Dean got beaten to a pulp a bunch of times. Baby got her share of beating too. But at last, Sam was freed from the angel and free to fill the bunker again with his own presence. Even with his silent treatment of Dean, the silence wasn’t nearly as deafening as during those three days of complete helplessness and isolation in the abandoned building.

The resentment that had nested in Dean’s bones back then, though squashed and tamed for a long time, never let Dean love the Bunker as much as he used to. Sure it’s still home and it’s still safety. But even when filled to the brim with music and laughter and people, it always carries a threat of incoming silence and solitude in the end.

At the finish of every song blasting on the gramophone and between every bye and hello, the black feeling deep inside still wags its tail just to make its presence known. At the dead of every night when Dean treads through the corridors to call Cas to bed, it scrapes at his marrow with its paw.

Dean sighs, trying hard to ignore the nagging feeling. He unpacks the bags and pockets the sweets.  There are still a few rooms he should check before giving up. He’s got nothing better to do, anyway, than to go on a grand quest to get those jellies to Cas and watch his nose crunch up as the sour crystals land on his tongue.

As he walks along the quiet corridor, he listens in. There’s nothing coming from the rooms he passes by, no sound seeping from their bedroom through the door left ajar. He pushes the wing slowly and it swings on its oiled hinges. If Cas is asleep, it would be a dumb idea to wake him, unless he wants to deal with his grumpy ass the rest of the afternoon.  But when the light from the corridor lands on the bed, it doesn’t uncover any shapes beneath the tangled sheets.

He should have started across the corridor right away. He taps his fingertips against the wood.

“You there, Cas?” he knocks harder, swinging on his heels, as he awaits the answer, but there’s none.

He goes for the knob, but when he pushes it, the door won’t budge. He readjusts his grip and tries again, to no avail. Well, that’s not suspicious at all. Sure, Cas has had the key to it all along, but never once did he use it, it’s just sat in Cas’s drawer since Cas moved to their bedroom for good.

Dean grumbles a cuss under his breath as he decides whether chasing Cas is worth it. In this maze of a building they might as well play hide-and-seek all day long. The jellies will have to wait. And if Cas doesn’t reappear soon enough, Dean might just chow them down himself, out of pure spite.

He turns on his heel to leave the silent corridor and turn the tv on, volume up. Before he takes a step, a distant salve of laughter reaches his ears. Faded and distorted it resembles a ghastly echo, but the last time he checked, the Bunker didn’t house any ghosts, so it has to be Cas’s.

The sound doesn’t repeat, but there’s only one way to go and soon he catches a trail of hushed words, a fragmented conversation. A phone call. All the way back here is surely a long way to go just to pick up a phone.

Dean moves on his tiptoes, holding his breath not to give himself away. He gets to the room, but doesn’t dare enter it and confront Cas. Instead, he leans back against the wall, listening for every sound coming through the crack in the door. For a while it’s quiet and he begins to worry Cas somehow felt or heard his sneaking.

The voice comes back after a moment, but carried through the length of the room and filtered by the closed door, the words become an unintelligible mumble. Dean steps closer and closer until he reaches the door. Sure Cas is still at the farthest end, he puts his ear to the wood.

An empty glass would be useful right now, maybe with it he could understand the sentences slipping out of Cas’s mouth, but like this he only gets ragged words. They’re too muffled for him to be sure of a single one of them. There’s his own name appearing from time to time, but it could be ‘bean,’ ‘clean,’ ‘deem’ or any-fucking-thing else. There might be a ‘lying’ or ‘buying’ or ‘dying’ and Dean’s imagination is starting to secretly make bets on which is the right one.

Dean lifts his head, touches the cold metal of the door knob. He lets it sit there for a while, as he’s fishing for any more words that would give him any picture of what the hell is going on. It’s sure not sure about canceling the tutoring sessions, it sure ain’t Claire or Sam or Charlie, or whoever else there is in Cas’s contact list, because if it was, why would he hide here? Why would he walk all the way to the depths of the Bunker, locked himself in an empty room and from the sound of it, sit at its very opposite end?

It makes no sense and neither do the jumble of sounds that reach Dean’s ear. Just one press of the knob, a teeny-tiny crack would open a whole new perspective. Or it could alarm Cas, going by how loud the vast majority of these ancient doors is.

His hand fall back to his side. If Cas hears him and catches him eavesdropping, Dean will have no choice but to confront him. And he’s not ready for that. He couldn’t stand to watch Cas fumble, to listen to his stutter as he’s looking for the right words, an excuse to get him off the hook. Or maybe Cas has the explanation, the lies, ready and rehearsed, just in case? Maybe they’d slip off his tongue without a single hesitation like a nursery rhyme sang a thousand times.

Dean crouches and presses his his ear to the keyhole, hoping for a better result. He only gets silence. The air catches in his throat as he readies himself to spring away, but then the caller exhausts their turn and Cas’s voice returns.

“No,” comes distinct and Dean curses himself for not trying the keyhole right away. “D’never– Yeah, I know.”

Silence again, followed by a distant creaking of the floor as Cas begins to pace, three-four-five towards him, then a turn and five back again. There’s more and more nothing coming from Cas. Aware of every step, Dean’s sitting on pins and needles. Come on, throw me a bone, here, he thinks, but all he gets is a soft, easy chuckle.

And then the sixths step thumps closer and seventh and Dean jumps away from the door like he got burned. There is no turn in the corridor and nowhere to hide before Cas gets to the door, his voice, close now carries a cheerful, “Alright, thank you.”

The knob cackles, the hinges squeak. Dean only makes it a few feet away before turning around, but it’s enough. He starts walking.

“Dean.” Cas stops mid-step out the door, hand guiltily swaying back from the pocket of his sweatpants. He mitigates himself quickly, plasters a smile on his face. “What are you doing here?”

His voice carries no sign of conspiracy, there is no shame for his actions in his movements. Of course, that Cas is great at.

His own voice Dean cannot trust either, so he buys himself time, reaching to his pocket. He struggles a little with the bag of jellies, throws it at Cas, who catches it gracefully. His smile blooms into a full-on grin when he recognizes the package.

“Was looking for you to give you this,” Dean answers, finally. A little firmer he adds, “You?”

“I was just–”

Now it’s Cas who stalls. He takes his time opening the bag, the fingers slip of the slick plastic. For a second, Dean dares to hope he won’t hear vain justifications. Cas could just come forward and explains himself, if Dean was lucky, it wouldn’t even be something horrible. It must be something simple, reasonable and Dean’s just being a total idiot.

Cas pries the package open, at last, under Dean’s impatient stare. He pulls one jelly out.

“Straightening my legs.”

Crinkling of his nose, twisting of his lips cover his blatant lie. Dean can’t even stand to look at his face.

“Inside a closed room?” he questions.

Cas starts walking back towards the center. “Can you believe we’ve– I have lived here for over two years and there are still so many chambers I haven’t seen?

“Oh, I’m sure an, um, empty space–?” he guesses, pointing back to the room they left behind, “must be fascinating.”

“This entire place is fascinating,” Cas answers diplomatically. “Covered in abundance with spells, protective magic.”

He speaks with so much conviction and admiration that Dean almost believes him. Almost.

The phone call and the lies, the locked door and disappearing. Has Dean missed any signs? Something in Cas, some desires and needs he’s been burying? Something in the world they’ve so thoroughly cut themselves off? Or has it started now and throws itself to hell all at once?

“Call me when the dinner’s ready?” Cas asks, lingering two steps behind Dean, his hand reaching to his door.

Dean shakes his head, resigned. “Okay.”

As he walks along the corridor, the last he hears of Cas is a click of closing door.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean hadn’t gotten much time to prepare the room. Cas was coming, he was gonna be here today. What Dean had done to restore the chamber had to be enough. It had felt like forever since the brief goodbye kiss at the station. The weak glow of an early morning sun peeking through the clouds, the hot air blowing at their faces from the couch trunk, a wave of hand from behind the glass. It had had to be enough for the long, upcoming months. Hardly the longest they’d ever been apart, and yet it had felt so, so different. But now the time was up and Cas would be home soon.

Cleaning, dusting and completing the shopping list had been quite therapeutic in those fucked up days. He would just change his room for Cas’s and for the car when he’d driven for miles to the Home Depot for a new mattress. Memory foam, just like his. Walking around the busy aisles in stores, stuffing his cart with clothes and other basics, just so Cas wouldn’t lack anything when he got here, it had always been better than maneuvering the bunker careful not to cross paths with angry Sam.

Sammy had the right to sulk, God knew Dean would be pissed too if someone had pulled a dubious consent possession on his ass. But as long as Sam had remained alive, he could be angry all he wanted. Dean could stand this one, well-deserved strain on the atmosphere. His good mood couldn’t be ruined.

Today, Cas was coming home.

And his room was practically ready. It looked a lot like Dean’s. The same old furniture, the same new mattress. Only the sheets were nicer than his, blue, of course, to match Cas’s eyes. The brick walls were left for Cas to decorate with whatever he’d see fit, half the drawers were stocked with the stuff Dean had bought for him, the rest would wait for Cas to fill up. There was only one thing that was still missing, Cas.

Quick steps echoed, somewhere deep in the bunker, as Dean was finishing doing up the buttons of the pillowcase. He toned out the sound and set the pillow at the head of the mattress. He had bought two of those: a big, puffy one and one that looked more like a pancake, rather than something that might provide any sort of comfort. Who knew how Cas would prefer to sleep, Cas was just weird enough to develop the liking for the world’s flattest pillow.

Dean passed a hand over the sheets to smooth a crease and stepped back to inspect his work. The watch on his phone screen told him he still had almost half an hour left until he had to go, but he could leave now as well and grab some snack on the way to welcome Cas with. Unless– One last glance around the room, at the empty spot of the nightstand. Dean slammed his palm on his forehead. He had made too big a deal of the thing to forget about it.

He took a short trip to his own bedroom. It was only across the corridor, door to door. The localization had gotten only partially something to do with his choice. In his bag, still dumped on his bed and mostly unpacked, he found what he was looking for right away, a small, flat box. From his nightstand he grabbed an envelope and returned to Cas’s room.

It had taken him three tries for the photospot’s doorknob before he had entered and a near runaway attempt when the picture had been being printed. The photograph itself could have hardly been called compromising, snapped God knew how long ago during one of few peaceful moments they had, sharing a beer at Bobby’s and sitting in companionable silence. It had been just him and Cas, sitting on a couch, Cas, as always, leaning too close into his personal space. Sam must have snapped it when Dean wasn’t looking.

Dean unpacked the plastic frame and put the picture inside it. It was incredibly sappy of Dean, and kind of pushy too. But knowing Cas, there was an off-chance he would appreciate it. And if he didn’t, he could always throw the pic away, save the frame for something better, Dean decided, setting it on the nightstand underneath the lamp, where it still stands.

The glass of the frame is a little more dusty now, just like everything else in the room. Except for the bed. Cas, with his presence, undusted the naked bed just fine.

“You don’t have to go with me if you don’t wanna,” Dean offers, standing on the doorstep, hands pushed deep into his pocket.

He regrets the words before he even says them. He’s not sure what reaction he’s expecting. Because Cas could just say “go without me,” and he’d stay to keep on with his shady business. And Dean would go and hope Cas would still be there when he comes back. What else could he do?

Cas doesn’t even seem to have noticed Dean’s presence, with his nose stuffed into the yellowed pages of a book, one off the pile of books stocked next to his knee.

“Give me a minute,” Cas mutters, at last. He furrows his brow, mutters something to himself and feels for the corner of the page. With a swift move, he dog-ears a page in an ancient book before Dean can react.

“Dude!” Dean throws his hand forward like it could stop him when he’s so far and it’s already too late. At least it finally earns him a glance. The mutilated book slumps sadly into Cas’s lap. Dean mitigates himself quickly, crosses his arms and tries to play it cool. “Sam would kill you if he saw you do that.”

Cas casts his eyes down in shame and inspect his work. Something he didn’t have decency to do yesterday afternoon when he still smiled and chatted and been with Dean more than he’d been for days. Even at night, he came to bed before Dean fell asleep, slipped into the bed, pressed his body along Dean’s spine. Drifting away surrounded by Cas’s warmth, Dean even let himself forget. Foolish, but he still let himself believe it’s okay. That maybe he’d made it all up, he’d written a whole fucking tragedy for nothing.

“You’re right,” Cas mutters, closing the book and setting it on the nightstand, back cover up. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll need that page,” he adds for an excuse.

“Use post-its,” Dean says, toeing the carpet. “At least you didn’t go all ripping it out.”

Cas shoots wide eyes at him. “That would be uncivilised.”

Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t hold back a brief huff of laughter. How come it still feels so easy? To be around each other, to talk, when he knows Cas is hiding something, and it doesn’t even show on his face or in his movements. There is no tension in the line of his shoulders, his eyes don’t try to escape Dean’s. But it’s not that simple with Cas, it never was. They guy who could go for months lying, betraying, using.

“Dean, is something wrong?”

Cas is staring at him, head cocked to the side.

Dean forces his jaw to loosen, though he didn’t even know he clenched it until it started to hurt. “Is there?” he want’s to ask, he wants to push him, until he confesses what he’s up to. But he doesn’t. There’s two hours of driving ahead, he doesn’t want to waste it on Cas’s excuses. He won’t run a risk of fucking up the road trip when it might as well be their last one.

“All’s fine,” he ensures him, mustering a smirk.

Cas doesn’t seem to bite it but he’s gonna have to. It’s not Dean who’s supposed to be explaining himself. And isn’t it hypocritical of Cas to even ask that, when he’s the one whose conspiracy is making Dean not fine?

“Okay,” Cas says, finally, scooping the rest of books off his bed and hiding them in the nightstand. “Give me five minutes to change,” he adds, but he doesn’t move from his bed.

He can’t leave the room, he can’t cross the corridor to get the clothes from their wardrobe. He needs Dean gone first, so he can lock the room.

Dean sighs and backs off to the corridor. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

 

It’s been awhile since the last time they ran Baby for a long distance. She’s been mostly sitting locked up in the garage these days. It’s hard to find a reason to jump behind the wheel in a quarter of square  mile town. On the upside, they saved on the fuel, but both Dean and her sure miss their races through the interstates and country roads. If there’s anything he misses from his hunting life, besides the saving people part, it’s this: just him, the car and the road ahead.

And Cas, of course. Always in the passenger seat, a successor worthy of taking over Sam’s spot. He fits there just right, he always has. His face, turned away now, towards the sun. His eyes are closed as he bathes in the warm rays, locks of his hair whirl around in the wind seeping in through the crack.

“It’s so nice and warm,” he says, pressing the tips of his fingers to the top of the glass.

“Yeah, you can almost feel summer, can’t ya,” Dean replies, amused.

So they’re talking about weather now? Well, it’s safe at least, isn’t it? Dean won’t go into any of the touchy subjects, or pry. Cas won’t accidently spill the beans.

“Do you think the guys might have something already?”

“Guys?” Dean glances to Cas confused.

“In Burr Oak,” he clarifies, his eyes dart to Dean. “I think we should call Dirk once Sam leaves.”

“Oh,” is all Dean can say.

He’s frankly more than a little surprised, not because he didn’t plan to call Dirk soonish – construction work is something they both rather enjoyed last summer and practically the only one they can count on with their current address, and the boss promised to keep spots for them once they get the thing at full speed.

It’s Cas talking about the future plans, their plans together. About driving together among the fields at dawn, when Cas tries to catch a little bit more of sleep on their way to Kensington or Red Cloud or Beloit. About handing each other the planks and bandaging each other’s injuries, about sipping cold beer in the afternoons and applying cream to each other’s burnt shoulders.

But Cas reads Dean’s silence all wrong.

“Of course, you still want to–”

“No!” Dean cuts him off. “I mean, yes, I still wanna move out,” he corrects. “But while we’re here, we should definitely call him.”

Cas nods, but his lips press into a thin line. His eyes shift back to the green landscape. Here comes the sulking. Cas turns into an offended child whenever Dean dares to so much as mention the m word.

“You think Reggie’s got enough money to enroll this fall?” Dean prompts to change the topic.

It works, Cas’s face light up a little.

“She did,” he informs him. Apparently, they’ve kept in touch since last fall. “She’s still might be coming, though.”

“Good. It’s great to have her in the crew,” Dean says. “The kid worked so hard she put us both to shame.”

Cas’s chuckle drowns in the roar of the engine. “I think she put the whole crew to shame. Stan with all his two-fifty pounds of muscle kept saying how he’d never seen a kid carrying the heavy stuff hardly breaking a sweat.”

The corner of Dean’s lips raises as he nods, but he doesn’t have much more to say on the matter. It looks like their summer plans are set. He doesn’t so much mind the work. He’s looking forward to it, actually, to putting his hand to some honest work and physical effort. A man was not made to sit on his ass all day, Netflix or not.

It’s the musty smell of dust that he minds, lingering in the air no matter how much he cleans. It’s the yellow glow of electric light that crawls on his skin and sometimes feels to have painted it orange and pale. It’s the silence of the open spaces and high ceilings, thick walls that won’t let a chirp of a bird nor a buzz of a machine in. It has even gotten worse in the last few days, when neither Cas’s steps nor voice nor breath was there to keep it disturbed. The guy’s recent weirdness hasn’t been helping his anti-moving out cause.

Dean’s foot falls heavy on the gas pedal as they roll onto the straight section of the road. He leans back comfortably into the seat, rolls down the window, sets his elbow on its biting edge, his fingers hold onto the roof to put resistance against the wind. The air that seeps into the car brushes his hair with its cold fingers. The longish strays tickle his forehead. He’s still to get used to that.

The road is wide and surprisingly empty. The heavy hum of a lone car passes by them every now and then from the opposite direction. There’s nothing but fields and a straight ride for twenty miles, it’s always the same in Kansas whichever way you go.

It’s the same as that day he drove to Hastings to get Cas back. Only the weather was chiller and his windows rolled up. Led Zeppelin played almost all the way there and his stomach curled tighter with each mile. Be it from the excitement or the anxiety. Or both.

Now it’s the steady rhythm of Creedence that enters the atmosphere. Dean turns to Cas’s fingers tapping it out on his knee.

He raises an eyebrow at the guy. “Not the boy band?”

“I like this song,” Cas answers quickly, not taking his eyes of the endless fields rushing by outside. “Beside, you told me to dismantle the iPod jack, can’t have Sam see it, right?” he adds, voice amused.

“I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

“I’m sure Sam grew out of such childish ways.”

“Dude, it’s Sam. And he’s got three months of that to catch up.”

He might be painting his words with annoyance, but the truth is, he can’t wait to see his little brother’s stupid face and hear his teasing on every turn. But Sam usually has enough reasons for that, he doesn’t need to witness Dean tolerating Cas blasting his music in the car, nor hear Dean humming along to Fireproof.

The sun climbs its way to its peak in the sky as they near the town. Its rays no longer reach Cas’s face, hidden in the shadow. His head, rested in his palm threatens to loll forward if in his daydream his eyelids tumble down. But he’s not falling asleep yet, not with his knee bouncing up and down to the beat.

Still, he’s mostly quiet the rest of the way, throws in a topic from time to time, but when their chatter stops, each time, Cas turns back to the horizon, sinks in his thoughts. Absent as if he’s not even there. As if Dean’s only now going to get him, collect into his arms from the couch that’ll roll into the parking lot. Groggy and exhausted from nearly two days in a tight seat and zero leg room, he strolled off the stairs from the heated inside right into the cold air of the fast approaching fall.

He didn’t look half as bad as when he had left, even though his smile hardly covered this pained grimace.

“I think my knees are broken,” he whined into Dean’s collar, as his arms wrapped around Dean’s back. “They won’t straighten the whole way up.”

Dean huffed a soft laugh, never loosening his embrace. “You might need to walk it off,” he explained, one hand draping his thick coat around Cas’s shoulders. “It’s so good to have you back,” he muttered, allowing himself the briefest kiss to Cas’s temple, innocuous enough not to have Cas’s body revolting in his embrace, his arms thrusting at Dean’s chest just to wriggle out and run away. It had been four long months since their kiss, and so many miles between them. Just because Cas was back now, there was no telling if they were still on the same page.

But Cas’s chest just rose and fell, his chin shifted on Dean’s shoulder, as he muttered, “It’s good to see you, too.”

Dean held onto the firmness of Cas for a few more heartbeats before letting him go. He left him to don the coat as Dean grabbed his duffle bag from the trunk. It didn’t seem any heavier than it had been when Dean had seen him off. After all Cas hadn’t exactly needed much new stuff, nor had he had money for it.

When he got back to Cas, the man still stood where he’d left him, with his palm pulling the collar up to his nose, though the evening wasn’t that cold. He reached out for the bag, but Dean ignored it and threw the straps over his shoulder instead. He lead Cas towards the impala parked in the near corner, his palm placed gently at the small of his back. Instead of inviting Cas to enter, Dean threw the bag on the backseat and turned around.

“Wanna head home right away or straighten your legs first?”

Cas glanced at the passenger seat, judged the little space before it, than pulled a half squat and shook his head. “Give me a minute.”

“Sure, you hungry? I got you some burritos on the way here, should still be warm. You like burritos, right?”

He had liked them, that much Dean knew, but the bad memory of that night must have tethered itself to the meal, because Cas winced.

“Could we have something else?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, locking the car. “Let’s find something open.”

They walked with no haste along the street, Dean with his arm thrown around Cas’s and Cas didn’t protest. It was hardly past ten, so most places were still brightly lit and welcoming. They settled for a simple diner at the end of the street, familiar and mostly empty. Dean ordered a full meal for Cas and just double fries for himself.

They took a spot in the corner with a view on the slowly emptying street. Not like the view mattered to Dean, his eyes were fixed solely on Cas. The guy straightened his legs and put them up on the seat next to Dean. For a while there was nothing between them but a clank of cutlery as Cas kept shoving the steak and fries into his mouth and chowing down on the food like he hadn’t eaten in a while.

“Of course, I had sandwiches, but I finished them in the morning,” Cas explained when Dean asked about it. “I’ve been going on chocolate bars since then. They’re not very nutritious.”

“Depends on who you ask,” Dean jokes, squaching more ketchup on his fries.

He decided to let Cas satiate his hunger before delving into the heavier stuff. Finally, when Cas’s pace slowed down, he took a deep breath.

“Cas, I’m sorry it took so long.”

Cas licked the sauce off his lip and took a sip of tea before answering. “It’s okay. Although, I did start running out of books to read, so that was good timing,” he added with a lopsided smile. “I found some VHS tapes, too.”

“Hey, so you basically had four months of holidays,” Dean offered as a poor consolidation.

“Oh, yeah. Right after my shift. And between the hunts. How’s Sam?”

“Sam’s not talking to me, but he’s not dead nor dying so I consider it a win,” he answered truthfully, then took a double take at Cas’s words. “Wait, you hunted?”

“A little. Didn’t end too great for me,” he added, pulling up the hem of his sweater and shirt.

Dean gasped at the sight of an ugly scar on his belly. “What happened?”

“Vengeful spirit. Impaling. A few days in a hospital. Not fun.”

“Shit,” Dean muttered as Cas let his clothes down. “I’m– Listen, Cas, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. Bring you chicken soup and all that.”

Cas shrugged, but then his face darkened. “I just wish you had trusted me with Sam’s health and the Gadreel matter, together we could have gotten rid of him sooner. I might be powerless, but I still hold a lot of knowledge.”

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you, Cas. I couldn’t trust that lying bastard. He threatened to let Sam die if I told you.”

Cas didn’t look at him when he said, “I understand.”

“It’ll never happen again, I promise.” Dean reached to Cas’s left hand resting on the table. That got him Cas’s attention, his eyes slid from their joined palms to Dean’s face. “No more lying, no more withholding the truth, okay?”

That was a big one, Dean had never been good at honesty. But he was just so damn tired of lying to the faces of the people he loved, so tired of those big secrets that tied his mouth shut at put him on edge of explosion. They had nearly cost him everything.

Cas knew. When he nodded with solemn face, he knew the promise might just be for a while and when the push came to shove, Dean would break it, even if in good faith. Still, Cas nodded.

“It sounds good. No more lies.”

Dean smiled. His hand lingered on Cas’s for a little while longer.

“So what do you say we send the angels back to heaven, together?” Dean offered. “And if we’re lucky maybe we’ll manage to get your grace back.”

Cas’s face brightened. “That would be great. Being human is limiting and annoying. I don’t know how you’ve done it for nearly forty years.”

“Dude! I’m thirty-four!” Dean snorted, offended, swiping the ketchup with the last fry and shoving it into his mouth. “You ready to go?”

Cas licked the traces of grease off his fingers and noded. “But I need to pee, first,” he said matter-of-factly, looking around for the restroom door.

There was no one else but them inside. Finally, for a moment, they were out of reach of curious, malevolent eyes. With a silent click, Dean locked the door behind them, hoping no one would come banging at the door. Still that was a better option than someone barging in, would give Dean time to peel himself off Cas’s lips.

If he got to them, that is. If Cas still wanted his lips to make promises that take too long to keep. Four months of lonely battle with day to day shit, all too new to the freshly fallen. And no support from Dean other than a phone call every now and then giving the report on the sucky situation that had never seemed to get them any closer to now.

But they were now and here, at last, and Dean had to at least try. A little heartbreak couldn’t hurt more than half the shit he’d been through. And he couldn’t wait until they were back in the silence of the Bunker, Dean had waited long enough. And he hoped Cas had too.

He put his palm on Cas’s shoulder, before the guy could take another step towards the urinal.

“There’s more than one of those, Dean,” Cas said, waving towards the wall.

Dean huffed a laugh, as he slipped into Cas’s personal space. “Not what I meant,” he murmured low, hoping Cas wouldn’t play the oblivious and have Dean use words instead of using his mouth.

It was all in Cas’s eyes and the nod of his head, right before he moved in closer. This time it was Cas who closed the distance with a force that pushed Dean back. The door rattled behind him as he smashed against it, Cas’s mouth smashed against Dean’s. The quick burst of passion was not enough to make up for the last four months, but it was enough for a teaser of grand things to come.

“Man, I missed you so much,” Dean murmured into Cas’s lips as they broke away for air. “I wanted to be there–”

“You’re here,” Cas cut him off and placed a chaste peck on his mouth. “I wasn’t sure you would be. And I don’t mean this dirty diner bathroom,” he added, taking a step back, as if the sudden realization of their location had killed the mood entirely for him.

It didn’t matter, soon they’d be home. In his room, maybe in Cas’s, on the mattress smelling with its newness.

“People do worse things in worse places,” he joked. “And I’m pretty sure we’ve used up our entire romantic quota with that kiss in the rain.”

Cas squinted at him, head cocked to the side. “How was that romantic? It was freezing. I couldn’t stop sneezing for days.”

A salve of laughter escaped Dean’s throat. “Oh man, you’ve got a lot of movies to watch. Let’s hope Sam didn’t change his Netflix password.”

 

“He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” Dean says, pushing his phone back to the pocket.

He resumes pacing along the Impala’s side, the metal, warmed in the sun, feels pleasant under his palm that he slides along the roof and down to the hood. He stops when he reaches Cas, sat on the car, his legs dangling down. Dean’s about to turn back to make another length, but Cas stops him.

“It’s probably traffic,” he reassures, his fingers graze along Dean’s forearm.

“Yeah, I know.”

He stays where Cas has got him, close within his space, his thigh bumping against Cas’s knee as he sways on his heels. They remain quiet for a while, in the middle of a parking lot. Not a living soul surrounding them, though it’s just past noon and a perfect weather, there are nothing but empty cars surrounding them.

The early spring sun is not yet hot enough to burn his skin or sprinkle the back of Dean’s neck with perspiration. Peaking above them, it cast long shadows of Cas’s eyelashes down his cheeks, as the man tilts his face towards it, eyes closed. He pulls towards the sun like he hasn’t seen it in months, whether he realizes it or not, he misses it as much as Dean does: the natural light seeping into the kitchen in the morning, pouring on book pages through the window in the living room, drowning the whole house with its warm, yellow glow. Electric light can never compare to that.

“Don’t get angry, Cas,” Dean starts, unable to keep the words in, “but you would love waking up with rays of sun on your face.”

Cas doesn’t move, doesn’t snap his eyes open to freeze Dean with his stare. The only indication he heard Dean is a slow, heavy sigh. And then the corners of his lips rise, not in an ugly, sarcastic twist, but a smile that brings out his crow’s feet.

“I think I would,” he muses, to Dean surprise. “I never had a chance.”

A spark of hope springs in Dean’s chest. It’s not a yes, but for the first time Cas said something akin to a maybe. But before he can jump at the opportunity to carry the topic further, to play his card of a long list of perks he’s amassed, Cas’s turns back to him, eye half-closed from the overexposure to red and orange light piercing through the thin skin.

“But I’d much rather be sure I wake up with you next to me,” Cas declares, his hand reaching to Dean, fingertips caressing his jaw.

Dean swallows hard to force down a frustrated growl.

“Come on, Cas, I’ll be there,” he countered, struggling to keep his voice even. There’s only so many times he can listen to Cas prophesying his demise. “I won’t just go out and get murdered only because we don’t live inside a holy mouse trap.”

However Cas imagines that, where his safety starts and where it ends, Dean doesn’t really want to get too deep into it, on the off-chance Cas receives a revelation and forbids Dean so much as put a foot outside the Bunker.

They could go on with the same old arguments. Dean’d say he’s a goddamn hunter and no amount of time will change it. He’d say he’s managed so far just to be reminded of every single time he died. “I can’t bring you back, this time,” Cas would say and Dean would feel like an ass.

“It’s not a risk I can take,” Cas concluded spitting the words fast enough to take the edge off the confession.

Dean bows his head down in defeat. He can’t protest that. He knows damn well it’s not a risk he could take either, even if Cas is going a little overboard there with the safety measures.

But Dean’s no right to be disappointed. It’s a good thing, Cas talking about future means there is one. He’s talking of his future with Dean, of how he’s still scared of losing him too. It must mean he’s not going anyway, at least not yet. Even if it’s just for a little – weeks, months – Dean’ll still take it. It’s better than only for tonight.

Maybe he is overreacting, after all, letting his wounded imagination and fears get a hold of him. Somehow it used to be easier to believe one day everything would be alright when they were all going through hell. They had little to lose then. He’s got everything to lose now.

Maybe he just needs a fresh set of eyes. Luckily, he’s about to get one.

“Quarter to one,” Cas answers his unasked question.

“I’m gonna call him,” Dean announces, reaching out his hand to Cas’s cell he’s putting back to the pocket. “My battery died,” he explains when the guy raises his eyebrow at his open palm.

“You were looking at the time ten minutes ago.”

“I was and then it died,” Dean lies, hopefully smoothly enough for Cas to bite it.

There’s a split second in which Cas is trying to decide whether to believe him.

“Fine,” he grumbles, handing Dean the device.

It’s wrong, Dean knows, as he’s turning around, unlocking the screen with his thumb. He pulls the screen close, listens in for Cas’s movements to make sure he doesn’t peek over his shoulder and catches him red-handed opening the register of last calls rather than the contact list. As Dean scrolls down, he looks for justification in his head, just for his own conscience’s sake. He would never have to do it if Cas hadn’t been the one to start it. Somehow the excuse doesn’t make him feel much better.

There aren’t many positions in the recent history. There’s one call from this morning from one of Cas’s students. Then there’s unanswered call from Dean’s, from the store, and one to Claire, but it’s too short and too early to be what Dean’s looking for. The rest of the calls are all Dean, Claire or the Students. There’s Sam’s number appearing a time or two as well, but they’re all from before yesterday.

Which means Cas deleted the damned dial from the list. Dean’s heart drops. That doesn’t, at all, paint Cas guilty all over.

“What are you doing?”

Dean’s eyes snap to Cas, leaning forward on the hood. Oh, right, calling Sam.

“Aw, here it is!” Dean announces, a bit grotesquely, and explains, “I was looking for Samantha–”

He musters his most innocent smile he usually uses on the authorities and presses dial. But before the signal comes in the speaker, Cas tips his heads to point behind him.

“I think that might be Sam’s bus.”

Dean turns to see the bus rolling into its slot. They don’t move from the Impala’s side, watching the bunch of people coming out of the exit. At last, there’s Sam. His giant figure stepping to the ground is unmistakeable, though a dark shadow of a beard and hair pulled back into a fucking ponytail throw Dean off guard for a second.

“Sammy!” Dean calls him across the distance and gets a quick wave in return.

Sam joins them a minute later with his baggage and a wide grin. He smothers them in his bear hugs, like he hasn’t seen them for years not months, as he chitters about how much he missed them both. He puts his bag into the trunk and they’re ready to go.

Despite the protest of everyone else involved, Cas takes the backseat, giving up shotgun to Sam, because, in his words, he can ride it anytime.

“He probably wants to inspect the poor thing that died at the back of your head,” Dean jokes. “I always thought you lawyer guys are supposed to look like decent human beings.

“I’m only on the first year, the professors don’t care that much as long as it’s neat.” Sam shrugs. “It’s the law firms that do.”

“Does that mean at some point soon–?” Dean raises two fingers and snaps them together like scissors. “Aw man, I so gotta be there for it,” he says not even hiding excitement. The luscious locks survived all those years of hunting just to be defeated by the conservatism of the law practice.

“Shut up,” Sam blurts out, his hand half-consciously reaches to the ponytail.

“Hey, I was offering emotional support–”

“So anyway,” Sam cuts in, louder, announcing he’s done with the topic. “How have you guys been? Good I hope?”

Dean’s smile falls for a split second before he remembers he can’t let it show. Not now, with Cas watching him from the back seat, the blue of his eyes reflecting in the rearview mirror. If only they were back in the Bunker, with Cas hermiting in his damned room, Dean wouldn’t have to force the corners of his lips to stay curled up.

When he’s alone with Sam, sipping beer in the kitchen, he’s gonna spill out all his concerns. Going to his little brother for a relationship advice was never Dean’s thing, but he also never really had much of an opportunity for it – or much of a relationship. But now, he’s totally out of ideas there, and Sam, while not the luckiest when it came to ladies, has certainly had a higher count when it came to a long-ish term partners.

At this point, Dean’s not above begging Sam to snoop around, even though he’ll probably hear he’s being a drama queen. But it’s not like Sammy’s little heart to heart with Cas can hurt anyone, maybe to him Cas will confess what the hell it is he’s up to.

But that’ll have to wait because right now, there’s Cas’s head poked in between them and Dean knows he’s waited way too long with a answer to a question this simple. But before he can paraphrase his trademark “I’m fine,” Cas puts a palm on his shoulder.

“Yeah, Sam, we’re good,” he says, smiling softly. “We’re really good.”


	3. Chapter 3

The best part of having Sam in the bunker is the delivery of fresh bread rolls every morning, without having to leave their cosy hole. Sunday morning batch even came with a bonus of a pie. And not just a slice, at that, or three, even. The entire, lovely pie, sitting in the silver form, with golden crust and white layer of powder covering the mushy insides, sweet with a sour note. The voluntary and unprompted purchase sure seems uncharacteristic for Dean’s salad fanatic of a brother. But Dean is in no position to complain, as he stuffs the sugary heaven into his mouth even before breakfast. Whatever the occasion is, it surely doesn’t come nearly often enough.

By the dessert time, the majority of Dean’s estimate one-third is long gone, which might have been a bit of a miscalculation on his part, since Sam’s and Cas’s pieces have remained intact. Can’t eat a cookie and have a cookie, after all, and almost literally, in this case. He still flops his last slice on the plate, visibly slimmer than the two portions already sitting on the plates. He makes up for the difference with a poor substitute of tripled whipped cream.

“Warned you not to eat it all at once,” Sam says, prompted by Dean’s grieving face.

He tilts his head back and fills his mouth with the whipped cream from the can, before putting it back in the fridge.

“Shu’up,” Dean blurts, not in a mood to come up with a clever comeback.

“Is Cas joining us? Haven’t seen him much around today.”

Dean clenches his jaw and forces it to relax before he answers.

“Don’t ask me,” he musters in his most casual tone. He’s trying to balance the plates in his hands as Sam grabs the mugs. “If he doesn’t, I’m eating his pie.”

“Is there something wrong between you?”

Dean’s eyes snap to Sam and he nearly drops one of the plates. So Sam saw it too, which means he’s not exaggerating, it’s not all just wildest scenarios in his head. It’s kind of a relief to know he’s not just being paranoid.

It’s also kind of a punch to the lungs.

“So you noticed?” He sighs, tipping his head toward the room.

He waits ‘til the plates are secure on the table and they’re sat in front of the tv, Sam in the armchair, Dean on the couch; the empty space beside him even more jarring now.

He takes in a deep breath. “I mean, it’s not between us,” he starts, then corrects, “At least I hope it’s not. It’s just him.”

Sam puts on that compassionate frown of his. “What is it?”

Where does Dean even begin? Left to his own devices, he’s had way too much time to come up with more and less probable explanations. He’s not sure he can say even one of them out loud in case giving them names can give them shape. Or maybe it’s just that something deep inside his gut tells him they’re all too absurd.

“Wish I knew, man,” he confesses, instead, staring at his hands. “That’s the problem. If I knew what it is I could try to work it out. But all I got is–” he waves at all the space lacking Cas–”this.”

He looks at his brother, to read from his face the answer to the question he cannot ask – partially because, even as it echoes unspoken in his head, it sounds too pathetic. Mainly, though, he can’t ask it, because he’s afraid that the answer is yes. Yes, you’re right to be worried. Yes, you must have fucked something up. Yes, you’re gonna lose him.

How long did you think it was gonna last?

And that’s without mentioning the lying about the fucking phone call.

But studying Sam’s knitted eyebrows, the pursed lips, he can’t see there what he dreads to find.

“Since when has this been going on?”

“Tuesday, I think,” Dean replies, not really up for the rehash. “I’ve no idea why, what prompted it. He just keeps locking himself in the room and hoarding books.”

The creases in Sam’s forehead smoothen. “That’s not long. I don’t think you–”

“And how long did it take him to–” Dean cuts and lowers his voice, just in case, “To cast the angels down?”

“You can’t be serious, Dean,” Sam protests. There’s a visible drop in his shoulders as he relaxes and leans back in the armchair. “He never meant for that to happen, you know that.”

“That’s not the point, I know he meant well. But what if he wants well again? Or– or something! I don’t know, Sam!” He throws his hands in the air then hides his head in them.

“Dean, I think you should stop worrying and just go talk to him,” Sam advises, like it’s that fucking easy.

If it was that fucking easy, Dean would have found out already. It’s Cas who broke the no lying rule.

“I tried, sorta. A few times,” Dean admits. “He won’t spill.”

“Want me to try later?” the guy offers and Dean’s grateful all he needs to do is nod.

Cas joins them, after all, announced by the silent steps from the corridor. He’s lucky enough to knock before Dean puts his fingers on his slice of pie. Or even his own, swimming in the half-melted whipped cream.

“Took you long enough. I was about you eat your pie,” Dean informs him, when Cas takes the place by his side.

“That’s fine,” Cas answers, reaching for Dean’s plate instead of his.

“No, this one.” Dean corrects his mistake, pushing Cas’s plate towards him, but Cas doesn’t react, still hellbent on taking the slimmer slice.

Sam snorts.

“Hey, what was that supposed to mean?” Dean barks.

“Nothing, nothing,” Sam throws his palms up defensively. “Just that you’ve already had your part.”

“I know,” Cas replies, practically forcing his plate into Dean’s palm. “But Dean likes pie. And I don’t mind if he eats some of mine.”

Dean pulls a winner face at him, as he accepts the plate. Cas’s legs lend across Dean’s lap as soon as he leans back.

“You are the best boyfriend ever,” Dean gushes, flashing Cas a toothy grin, before sinking his fork in the portion, epic-sized compared to the other measly dish. “And you’re just jealous, Sammy, it’s okay,” he adds, but his jokes seems to be a misfire, given the way Sam’s smile leaves his eyes.

Looks like Dean’s not the only one in relationship troubles, but as he opens his mouth to say something, Sam puts the movie on. It’s an obvious enough sign, so Dean just stuffs a huge bite of the pie into that open mouth and lets it go for now. They eat in silence broken only by the obscene jokes from the tv and Dean’s obnoxious, delighted noises. Soon, he’s joined by Cas in the wordless appraisal.

“Is this rhubarb?” Cas asks, squinting as he chews the squishy filling. “I’ve only had rhubarb pie once, but–”

“Yeah, it is.” Dean beams. “How far do you go jogging, Sammy? They sure don’t make rhubarb in Lebanon. I even tried bribery, Sue would not yield.”

“Sue? You mean that gray-haired lady? She said they’re expanding their offer and when I said I was your brother, she told me I must take a whole pie for you.”

“Good, old Sue.” Dean chuckles. “You for real, though? I’ve been fighting for it for years,” he adds, slightly offended. He’s been a regular for how long now? And Sam just goes once and this miracle is waiting for him? Where’s justice? “Don’t tell me they’ve got pecan now too.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“This sounds like a reason not to move out,” Cas jumps on an occasion.

“Can’t argue that this’ll go on the pro-staying list,” Dean answers, surprised Cas was the one to initiate, but judging by the guy’s face that was his last word on the matter, too.

There’s a crease on Sam’s brow as he glances to Dean. His mouth falls open, as the words begin to push through, despite Dean’s hand gesturing at his brother to shut up.

“You’re moving out?”

There it fucking goes. Dean and Cas utter their respective “yeah” and “no,” only Cas’s is too quiet, muffled by the rhubarb filling he nearly sputters out. At least, Dean assumes, that’s why Sam feels the need to keep digging.

“Where to?”

Dean gives out a sigh.

“Apparently, Bobby had a safe house in Saint Helena, which is ours now, so–”

“Saint Helena, California?” A growing grin brightens Sam’s face. He shifts in the armchair, practically forcing himself not to bounce like an agitated puppy. “That’s like, what? Two hours away from me?”

Before Dean can answer, Cas sets his plate down on with a loud clank.

“Don’t get excited, Sam. We’re not moving out,” he announces, unceremoniously shutting down the topic.

Sam shoots Dean a confounded look, but doesn’t dare ask any more questions this time, even without any additional warnings from his brother. Dean just raises his shoulders in a hopeless gesture. The message is clear: Cas doesn’t like to talk about it and he’s sure as hell gonna sulk now for hours.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mouths to Dean, but really, how could he have known? A few years back, if Dean was to bet on which way this argument would go, he’d say he’d never leave here in a hundred years. Why would he? How could he anticipate how dark and heavy the place would grow on him, how much money would suck when all they have is a ghost address, how much he’d crave to remain what he and Cas are, only somewhere brighter, somewhere normal?

Who could guess Cas would be so opposed to it, though he was the one to nearly drag Dean out of the life. It might have taken him a few months, but Dean was set to lose ever since that day they won. The night sky still gleamed, from time to time, with the blueish glow of the celestial beacons returning home, never to bother humanity again, not in their lifetimes, at least.

“One out of three, not too shabby.” Dean yawned, buttoning up his jacket. “We can go back to our regularly scheduled program, right, Sammy?”

Sam pushed a hand through his hair and shook the bag off his back. His stare was fixed on the zipper as he spoke, “Can’t we take a moment to savor this one victory first?”

Dean pushed the tip of his shoe into the grass-covered soil, never letting his gaze off the side of Sam’s head. He watched him pull out the hoodie, in the slowest way possible. Dean knew what it was all about, he wasn’t dumb. There wasn’t gonna be any regularly scheduled program, no slicing and dicing, sending black-eyes to Hell and other things nasty to Purgatory. No family business. For Sam, it was the end, right there, right then. For him–

“Victory,” Dean echoed, repeating the word in his head, until the black hole feeling in his chest that bloomed in there within moments returned the light and lightness, the euphory that had been shooting through his veins only minutes ago. “Victory, yeah.” A buzzing chuckle at first, turned into a brief, unrestrained salve of laughter.

He crossed the distance to his brother, put a hand on his shoulder in an unspoken blessing.

“We’re so gonna savor it, little brother,” he said. “I propose drinking until we pass out and then sleeping it all off for a month. At least.”

Those had been tough few weeks, sleepless nights, and they all showed in black circles underneath Sam’s eyes. But those, now nearly disappeared, brightened by the gratitude and honest to God happiness.

“We’ll do that,” Sam promised. His eyes darted to the dark figure sitting on the ground behind Dean’s back. “We should walk if we don’t wanna sleep here.”

Dean shot a glance to the west, to the distant line of trees. The Impala awaited them on the other side, a mile or so across the forest. This was gonna take some time and Dean could barely keep his eyes open now that the adrenaline had faded.

“How about we’ll catch up to you?”

Sam nodded and started his trek towards the car. He wouldn’t go into the woods without them, only far enough to allow them some privacy.

“How you holding up, buddy?” Dean asked, sitting in the grass next to Cas, their knees bumped.

The ground was cold, but the dying bonfire still emitted enough warmth to make it the nicest place to be on the entire, vast meadow. Or maybe it wasn’t the fire at all.

Cas didn’t acknowledge him at first, staring through the glass of a vial between his fingers at the tongues of fire on the orange of embers. The smoke still carried the scent of burned ingredients. The man’s lips stretched in a small smile.

“I’m great,” he replied. “We returned my brethren to Heaven where they belong. We righted my error. Of course I’m good.”

“Yeah, but you couldn’t–” Dean swallowed his words. Instead, he put a hand on Cas’s thigh. “It’s not the end, okay?” He points to the empty glass that used to hold Cas’s grace. “Just because it’s missing doesn’t mean it’s gone. We’ll find it and we–” His voice got stuck in his throat. He cleared it and tried again, “We’ll get you back up there.”

Cas turned to Dean, his eyebrows knitted together. “Why would I want to go back?”

“You don’t want to?” Dean smiled, unable to hide his relief.

All this time when they had searched for Cas’s grace and for ways to open Heaven, every shared moment, every kiss, every night he had been given he had cherished, knowing it had only been for some time. But maybe their some time could last a little while longer.

The fallen angel lifted his eyes towards the sky.

“There is nothing waiting for me in Heaven,” he said, finding Dean’s palm on his leg. “Every single thing that matters is here.”

Over his shoulder, Dean cast a glance at his brother, his silhouette leaning against a tree, then back to their palms, their fingers interlocked.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he muttered, pressing lips to Cas’s temple.

His free hand Dean wrapped around his waist to pull him close before they had to put the fire out and leave. For the first time, Dean held Cas like he wasn’t just a temporary thing, without every breath bringing him closer to letting go.

And he’s not letting go, not now, not yet. He clings to every curl of Cas’s mouth even if the smiles aren’t directed at him but at the movie. They’re better than his lips pressed into a thin, white line in-between, eyes stubbornly never even glancing anywhere else but the screen, body never shifting an inch.

It’s an uncertainty more than anything else. It’s been that since it all began, but if he’s got Cas pissed too, on top of conspiring, Dean might not hold on for much longer. He has to check if they’re fine, at least in this little moment, if he’s to ever have a chance to find out if they’re fine in their happily ever after.

He might not have enough courage for words, but he’s still got his body, touch. He places a palm on top of Cas’s knee, still resting on Dean’s lap. When no reaction comes, he gets braver. He moves his palm along Cas’s calf, fingers caressing the bare skin where his sweatpants rolled up. When his fingertips reach the ticklish sole of Cas’s feet, Dean expects the man to shake off his hand, take his legs away or even leave, but Cas just wiggles his foot and whines the same way he always does.

Dean only takes his hand for a moment, before the second attempt. This time the wiggling gets stronger and Cas huffs out a childish, prolonged “stop iiiit.” Neither of them can’t help but smile. Cas still struggling to keep on his angry frown; Dean – because Cas fails.

At the third attempt, Cas’s legs fly off Dean’s lap, but it’s not to carry Cas out of the room. Before Dean can even register what’s going on and jump away to save his skin, Cas is all over him, his swift fingers tickle his sides. A half-shriek, half-giggle escapes Dean’s mouth as he bends over, but Cas is relentless, readjusting his body to continue the torment.

“I told you to stop,” Cas growls into his ear, clinging to his back. His hands don’t even skip a beat.

Dean’s got what he wished for and no swatting can help him get out of Cas’s trap. And Cas knows no mercy when it gets to tickling revenge. The rapid spasm quickly pump all air out of Dean’s lungs. But his honor won’t let him give up. He stoops lower, with his fists handful of Cas’s shirt, until the guy topples over and ends up on the floor with a thump.

Dean has not a second to waste. He jumps off the sofa, pins Cas to the floor with his knees on both sides of his pelvis. His fingers go straight for Cas’s armpits, which are his weakest spots. Pressing his elbows to his sides, Cas tries to block the attack, but Dean doesn’t stop until he draws hysterical laughter from his mouth, then leans in to kiss that laughter away.

That is his mistake, playing too nice. Cas moves into the offense again and they struggle for the dominance, rolling on the soft carpet in the narrow space between the sofa and the table. As always, the last word belongs to Cas, who’s got Dean’s legs immobilized with his weight seated on them, both his wrists trapped in his one palm, over Dean’s head. The other palm tickles his stomach, armpits and neck at the speed of light until Dean’s all red and reduced to squeaking like a little kid through his coarse throat.

“Alright,” Dean gasps, fighting for air. “Truce! Truce!”

Cas’s hand freezes mid-movement at Dean’s capitulation. He gives Dean a moment to catch his breath, before grabbing the front of his shirt and dragging him upwards until their faces are less than an inch away.

“Don’t start with me unless you’re prepared to lose,” Cas says with his voice even deeper and sexier from the strain.

“Did I lose? I didn’t notice,” Dean teases, pressing his mouth to Cas’s.

“Eww, guys, get a room,” Sam calls from his armchair, where he pulled up his knees to his chin not to get in their way.

Laughing, Cas gets off Dean and stretches out his hand to help Dean up.

“Technically, we are in  _ a _ room.” Dean grins.

To further mentally scar his little brother, he yanks Cas hard by hips to drag him down with him when he plops back on the couch. Cas lands on his lap, a little staggered, his ass slips into the space between Dean and the armrest, knees under Dean’s chin. Dean holds him like he’s not a six feet tall guy.

“Aren’t we, Cas?” Dean teases, pulling Cas in by his t-shirt into a kiss. This time he doesn’t need to use any force at all.

“Who’s got brain bleach?” Sam mutters amused, just to stay true to the younger brother script.

He unpauses the movie he stopped for their sake, but Dean couldn’t care less about the movie when he’s got Cas on top of him, Cas’s playful tongue teasing his, Cas’s fingers buried in his hair.

They retain some decency, of course, quickly bring their little party to an end before it gets gross and chases Sam away. Cas peels himself off Dean and takes place beside him. It feels good, watching the movie with Cas clung to his arm, his head rested on Dean’s shoulder. For the first time in days Dean thinks that maybe it’s not that bad, maybe Cas isn’t going anywhere. After all, he’s already where he belongs.

 

“Come on, Sam, I’ve already seen Brokeback Mountain, that not enough?” Dean grumbles, trying to rip the remote out of Sam’s hand without initiating a full-blown fight for it. The gigantor’s arms are too freakishly long for him to stand a chance. “Just because I’m with a guy, doesn’t mean I have to watch every gay flick there is.”

Sam switches the remote to the other hand. Dean needs a better plan.

“But nobody dies in this one,” the younger brother explains like that’s supposed to convince Dean to willingly spend two hours of his life watching another freaking romance. He’s already watched enough of them to last him at least five lifetimes.

Before Dean can comment on the lacking relevance of the reveal to Dean’s decision, Cas comes with an unintentional back-up.

“Spoiler,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

Dean narrows eyes at the guy, but doesn’t comment. In case this is the last thing Cas says on this or any other topic tonight, having much more interesting things to do or, hopefully, just bored to death with their quipping, Dean clings to it.

“See? Spoiler,” he echoes, turning Sam’s words against him. He bends over Sam’s legs, reaching for the device lying on the armrest, but Sam is quicker and swoops it away. “Now even Cas doesn’t want to watch it.”

“I did not say that,” Cas corrects, just as Dean’s starts to feel safe in his opposition, affirmed by the tight line of Sam’s lips.

Now Sam’s lips are spread into a wide, toothy grin and his fingers move on the remote’s buttons. How exactly did the thing even end up in his grasp?

Dean throws himself back on the sofa, crossing arms on his chest.

“Et tu, Cas?” he whines.

He fully expects a lengthy explanation for the wild maneuver the man performed that made Dean look like an idiot and for choosing Sam’s side over his lover’s, but Cas only shrugs, still glued to his phone.

“You better be looking for a good action movie,” Dean mutters, strongly emphasizing the action part. He tries to peek at his screen, but all he manages to catch is their picture on the wallpaper, before Cas locks the phone and pockets it.

“I was checking the weather,” he answers evenly, turning to face them, hands wrapped around his knee.

Dean’s eyebrows ride up to his hairline. Checking the weather is a new one, providing an excuse in general is new, so either Cas finally started to feel particularly guilty or suspected, or he in fact was checking the weather, God knows what for.

“So, Sam, Dean,” he begins, to which Dean’s eyebrows ride all the way to the back of his head. One of his silent alarms suddenly gains voice, and a screechy one at that. “What are your plans for the rest of the week?”

Dean slides a few inches down, forcing himself not to curse. That was really fucking close to a heart attack.

“Uh– um–” Sam grunts, pointing to the TV, while simultaneously trying to come up with a fancier way to say ‘we’ll watch everything there is on Netflix.’

“We’ll go climb Kilimanjaro,” Dean supplies. “What do you think?”

Cas rolls eyes at him and looks to Sam instead. “Remember when you mentioned you’d like to go on a road trip?”

Intrigued, Sam puts the remote down and leans in, rests elbows on his knees. “Yeah, we talked about it on Christmas. Remember, Dean?”

“I remember,” Dean agrees emotionlessly. He’s not really eager to see where this is going.

They did talk about a road trip for the old time’s sake. Not to hunt, just to pick a road and drive, to turn up the radio and roll down the windows. And to take Baby out on one more long ride. It might have been less than a year since Sam moved out for good, but it’s been much longer since they last drove further than the airport in Omaha.

They might have been a little drunk when they planned it, though.

“Well, I was thinking you could go now,” Cas announces, tone so self-congratulatory as if the idea was about to grant him the Nobel Prize. “It’s warm enough. It’s going to be sunny next few days.”

So that’s why the weather forecast.

Sam jumps on the wagon right away, looking like he’s about to pull out the map and get to planning. As long as it saves Dean from watching some indie romance, he should be content. But there’s something here that doesn’t sit well with him, he just can’t put a finger on it–

“We could catch a show in Des Moines then go North maybe,” Sam says, really pumped up. “We might go fishing, huh, Dean? What do you think?”

Dean shrugs. He appreciates Sam’s attempts to cater to his needs during the trip even if it’s just the catch to persuade him, but saying so much as a ‘yeah’ feels risky for some damn reason.

“Hey, we could go visit Jody and the girls!” Sam exclaims. “I haven’t seen them in ages. Well, since we dropped Claire and Alex there. It’ll be great to see them.”

“Yeah,” Cas mutters. “Sounds good. What do you think, Dean?”

It does sound good. One of the downsides of settling down is not seeing your friends for months or even years at the time. Of course, the biggest perk is having any living friends, at all.

Dean opens his mouth to say that yes, seeing Jody and Donna and the girls would be great, let’s go on the trip, fuck yeah. But before any sound can come out, it clicks. What felt so wrong about this whole trip idea, was not the trip part, it was Cas’s choice of words.

“You,” Dean snaps at Cas, accusingly. “You said ‘you could go,’ not ‘we,’” he continues through his teeth. “As in Sam and I, yeah? And what about you, Cas?”

In contrary to Dean, Cas remains completely calm. He even dares to smile at Dean.

“I’ll stay here,” he explains, like it’s obvious. “It’s a brotherly trip, you and Sam, like the old times.”

“Oh, the old times,” Dean echoes and quieter he adds, “Because those were so great.” He runs a palm down his face, using up all his willpower to retain his composure. “How do you imagine that?”

Cas parts his lips, staring at Dean confused.

“What Dean wants to say,” Sam rushes to help, “is that brotherly doesn’t mean without you. You’re practically my brother-in-law.”

“I did not mean to imply that,” Cas corrects. “But you two used to spend all days together. You miss Dean and Dean misses you, Sam.” He turns to Dean. “I know how much you do, Dean. And you’re getting restless too.”

There’s something in his words, his tone, that feels rehearsed. But it might just be Dean’s imagination. Cas has sounded rehearsed half the time ever since they met.

But that still doesn’t answer the key matter.

“Why without you?” Dean reiterates the question for him more clearly.

Cas shrugs. “I can’t, I’ve lessons during the week,” he answer plainly.

Dean blinks a few times. Of course, the simplest lies are the best. He can’t exactly say he wants to be alone to do whatever the hell he’s doing, not confined to the enclosement of his room, without having to watch out for Dean and make up excuses. Or worse. He could just get to the fucking shit up right away. Or he could just leave.

“Reschedule,” Dean supplies, struggling for control over his own voice.

The man shakes his head. “There are too many to reschedule them all. We need the money don’t we? Besides, Jonah and Lily have important tests next week and we haven’t finished the material yet.”

There are two pairs of eyes burning holes into Dean’s head. It all comes down to him now, his decision. It’s not really much of a decision. He’s not leaving Cas, not now and definitely not when he so openly wants to get rid of him. Sucks for Sam, sure, the kid won’t get a chance to come until summer holidays. But then, it’s not Dean’s fault he was stubborn in going back to fucking Stanford, half-way through the country, as if there weren’t good law schools within a days travel.

Sam will understand, Dean knows that. There’ll be more opportunities for bonding on the road and visit old friends. They could do an entire tour across the States in the summer, if they’re still so eager by then, they could visit not only Jody and Claire, but Charlie, Garth, Kevin too, if he wants to see them.

If they go now, there might never be an opportunity for anything, again.

Sure, it doesn’t have to be final at this very moment. Maybe if Sam investigates Cas, gets a single, proper answer and an acceptable one, Dean will change his mind, but for now–

“You either go with us or we don’t go at all,” Dean announces firmly and snatches the remote so no one has any doubt he’s done with the conversation.

Sam accepts his decision with an understanding nod.

Cas, of course, does not.

“I don’t get what your problem is, Dean,” he questions, his hand on Dean’s forearm, only amping up the dissonance between his words and his actions.

It’s the last straw. Cas doesn’t get to hide things and lie about them so blatantly just to turn around and play dumb. And it doesn’t matter if Dean is being a paranoid or a drama queen. No lies means no lies. It’s Dean’s time to deal low blows.

“Well, I don’t get how living in a nasties-proof house will get me murdered but a road trip in a Winchester trademark car won’t.”

It’s the first thing he should have asked, really, it’s pure logic – or the lack thereof. Cas must have not thought this part through when he came up with his brilliant plan, which only speaks to his guilt. Are his moving out concerns even real or are they just false pretense to hide the real reason Cas is so hell-bent on staying?

Cas looks like he’s been slapped across the face with his own, ripped out liver. His mouth opens and closes, as he’s looking for the risposte.

It looks like Dean won, but he sure doesn’t feel like celebrating. He still doesn’t let his eyes off Cas, waiting for him to speak, to prove Dean wrong, before Dean falls apart.

And then Cas does.

When the words seep out of his mouth, at last, they’re so quiet, Dean nearly misses them.

“You’d be with Sam.”

It’s Dean, now, who gets slapped and stabbed and kicked in the gut. It’s him, who reaches out to Cas.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, softly, although something tells him he already knows the answer.

“Sam can protect you,” Cas says, a little louder this time.

He doesn’t have to add the other part of the sentence.

“Is this about Whitefish?”

Of course, it’s about Whitefish. Dean should have known. All this talk about the dangers out there and keeping him safe. How fucking dumb did Dean have to be not to put two and two together. It’s been almost a year and the only marks the event left on Dean are a bunch of scars. He’s had it worse, much worse.

But Cas had never before had to carry his bloodied, drunk ass to the hospital, never before had to sit by his bed. It was a really shitty ending to a really fun reception. Dean wasn’t without blame, he shouldn’t have drunk so much he couldn’t protect himself.

“D’I known you’d’ve friend this hot ‘ere, d’ve find ya a diff’nt safehouse,” Dean slurred, as Cas dragged him out of the passenger seat.

“She was already engaged when I moved in here,” Cas informed him, note of amusement in his voice.

Dean chuckles, trying to keep balance. “Tha’ what stopcha?”

“No, I was waiting on this one asshole to call me.” Cas’s hand slipped under Dean’s arm and led him across the shaky ground. “Could you walk a little straighter?”

“Gotcha.” Dean winked, pulling a finger-gun on Cas. All it got him was Cas tugging him harder and pushing through the door.

“Get in bed,” he ordered and mumbled something about getting wood that Dean didn’t catch exactly, but it excited him anyway.

Now they were talking. Dean jumped eagerly towards the bedroom door, fumbling to take off his suit jacket on the way. He managed to get to the bed, despite the room bouncing around. He bent over to and began to struggle with his shoelaces that just wouldn’t comply, slipping out from between his fingers.

He had a little too much pride in him to ask for help, but he hoped Cas would stop just looming over him and give him a hand. But no dice, Cas stood there, unmoving and Dean had to kick his shoes off without undoing them. At last, they were off and they could keep going.

Dean grinned, satisfied, and straightened up. He opened his mouth to coax Cas to come closer, but the man did step up without it. Only it wasn’t Cas.

Dean tumbled to the floor, sharp pain bloomed in his jaw.

“What the–”

A kick to the chest successfully shut his mouth. He reached to his belt, but there was nothing there, not a knife, not a gun, of-fucking-course.

“Look who I got here,” the attacker hissed through his teeth. “The mighty Winchester, drunk out of his wits.”

“Wanted t’ give ya a headstart,” Dean grunted, which only earned him another kick. Stomach, this time.

He curled on the floor, arms wrapped around his middle. That’s a shitty position to start with, the guy towering high above him. And Dean had had trouble standing straight even before the first hit.

He had to do something. He wasn’t gonna die there like that, suckerpunched and taken out drunk and vulnerable. As the fucker lifted his boot, Dean pushed back and rolled under the bed. He clenched his teeth, trying to withstand the swirling it caused in his head. If he couldn’t find, he was gonna stall, until Cas comes to save his damsel in distress ass.

Unless Cas was already–

The bed didn’t serve him as a shelter for long. The wooden frame flew up and against the nearest wall, leaving Dean again cowering in the corner.

“Really?” The thing’s eyes gleamed black.

“Crowley sent you?”

“Nah, Crowley wuvz you. Makes him a crappy king,” the demon replied. “But I kill the greatest demon slayer, his bee-eff and his bro? I might just get crowned.”

Another kick to the face reverberated all the way down his spine.

“Newsflash, we’re out of busi–”

Crack of his ribs drowned out the rest of his words.

Stomach. Chest. Back. Head, at last. That one came with a promise of sweet darkness, devoid of pain. The silver glint of the knife carried a promise Dean did not like. But he wouldn’t feel that anymore, he began to sink. From the distance, a desperate, terrified sound reached his ears.

“Dean!”

The lights went out for good after that, Dean didn’t get to witness Cas fight the demon and exorcise him. In the backseat of the Impala, he’d swing in and out of consciousness, as Cas drove frantically, swerving among the cars on busy streets. He saw Cas next when he woke up in a hospital bed, he sported dark circles beneath his eyes and a single bruise on his jaw.

The first words Dean heard from him were: “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean should have known then. He should have known now.

“It was not your fault, Cas,” he repeats the exact words he said to him in the hospital.

But just like then, Cas doesn’t seem to hear them at all.

“I failed to protect you,” he insists. His eyes fall to his hands. “I’ll fail again.”

“You didn’t fail to protect me!” Dean says, voice firm. He puts one hand on Cas’s knee, with the other he reaches to Cas’s chin, to force him to look back at him. “You saved my life, Cas.”

The man still shakes his head.

“You almost died.”

“I did not almost die,” he reminds him, trying to remain calm and not to roll his eyes. “It wasn’t half as bad as you paint it, man.” He presses fingers to his eyeballs, takes a breath. “But I would have died if it weren’t for you.”

“Exactly, if I didn’t com–”

“But you did!” Dean bursts out. “You came just in the right moment, you sent the demon back to hell and saved my ass. That’s what matters. Not any ifs and would haves.”

Cas turns his head away, not to look at Dean. Behind Dean’s back, a quiet click of the door lets Dean know Sam left to give them some privacy and he’s fucking thankful for it. It’ll all hopefully go much smoother without a witness.

Cas opens his mouth again and Dean knows exactly what he wants to say and beats him to it.

“The demon shouldn’t have gotten there in the first place, I know. We should have checked the traps,” he says, with a strong emphasis on ‘we.’ “We both should have made sure the place is safe. It’s not just on you.”

He sees it, in the way Cas’s lips press into a thin line, the way he doesn’t look at him, that he still somehow thinks it’s all his fault, that he’s solely responsible for the attack and even without that–”

“It happened once, it can happen again. I can no longer guarantee you safety.”

“No one can, Cas. You think Sam can? You’re not any less capable of protecting me than Sam. Besides, that’s not your damned job to do so. I’m a grown man, Cas, I can take care of myself and if I can’t, well, sucks for me.”

“But it’ll be me who’ll have to keep going without you.”

This shuts Dean up. The words and the look in Cas’s eyes, distraught and griefful as if he’s already lost him. What can he say to it? What can he offer other than a touch of his palms on his face, fingers swiping away his unruly bangs, a kiss pressed to his forehead. What can he offer him when he can’t promise he won’t lose him, he can’t guarantee him that.

“I know,” he says, at last. I know, because that’s the same damn thing I fear. “I know,” he repeats, pressing his lips to Cas’s hair. “I won’t be nagging you about moving out until you’re ready, okay?”

Cas nods, breathes evenly, slipping into Dean’s embrace and Dean holds him, safe in his arms, in their home. Why was he ever so bent on leaving when all he needs is right here? Whether it’s here or anywhere else. Every single thing that matters is right there.

“Is that what you’ve been up to lately?” Dean murmurs, his chin rested on top of Cas’s head.

Cas doesn’t answer right away. “Up to? What do you mean?”

Dean sighs. Is he gonna do it now?

“Really, Cas? You think I didn’t notice you locking yourself in your room all the time and stuff?”

“Ah,” he pauses. His fingers trace the hills of his knuckles for a while before he speaks again. “I thought I was being more subtle.”

“Yeah, very fucking subtle.” Dean huffs out a laugh, forcing the humor into it. “So is that it? Protection? Looking for superspells or something? You’ll get me tattooed all over with them?”

Cas chuckles. “No,” he replies. “And yes, that’s what I’ve been looking for. I think I’m close,” he informs, then with a sudden thought, he swivels out of Dean’s hold and turns to look at Dean. “Wait, is– it that why you wouldn’t go on the trip with Sam? Because you thought I was up to something?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits. “I was worried you’d do, I don’t know, something.”

A briefest emotion shoots through Cas’s face, but it’s gone before Dean can decipher it. Was it disappointment at Dean’s lack of trust? It had to be. But then a smile blooms on Cas’s face.

“Does that mean you’ll go?”

Dean throws his head back in a quiet growl. “Yeah, okay, I’ll go,” he decides.

“Great,” Cas says with a returned excitement, as if he was the one going on an adventure of a lifetime.

Dean pulls Cas in for a kiss.

“Just promise me you don’t plan anything dangerous,” he pleads.

Cas nods, palm on Dean’s cheek, eyes bright. “I promise.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean cast the last glance at the Thunderbird’s engine. It shines like it’s from under the needle, but that’s as far as the good news goes. He’s already fixed all he was capable of fixing, the rest will require parts he can’t afford to buy right now.

He wipes his hands into the cloth and shuts the hood with a loud thump that thunders even over Thunderstruck roaring in his earphones. He takes a chug of beer from the bottle, turning to put the cloth down. He nearly spills its entire contents all over himself as a tall figure appears in front of him.

“For fuck’s sake, Sam!” he yells over the music, wiping his mouth and chin, before he pulls the earphones out. “You don’t sneak like that behind an ex-hunter, I could have killed you!”

“More like get a heart attack,” Sam jeers. “Didn’t see the earphones. You’re planning on selling the cars, huh?”

Dean scoffs at him. “Wow, you and Cas are so alike, you should get married, guys,” he blurts and turns to wipe a smudge off the car’s hood with his thumb. “He wanted to sell ‘em too, when money was kinda tight in the winter.”

“Money?” Sam questions. “You’ve free living with the whole package.”

“Oh sure. Shame the package doesn’t include an address. Good luck finding a job when you’re not even in Google Maps,” Dean explains. “Dude, not even the Streetview. And minus the plastic–”

“Right, I get it. I’m guessing that’s why you wanna move out?”

Dean just nods. There’s no point in bringing the entire for and against list into this, especially when some of it he won’t even confess to Cas.

“So, for Cas, then?” Sam says and, seeing Dean’s confusion, cocks his head at the car.

“Yeah, kinda,” Dean confirms. That was the idea, at least, when he still hoped Cas would yield and they’d move out eventually. It’s not like Cas needs his own car now, when they never go solo anywhere outside Lebanon. “Unless he cheats on me, then I’m giving it to Claire.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Cheats on you? Where’d you get that from?”

Dean’s voice must have failed on the joking front.

“Forget it.” Dean waves a hand, before Sam starts digging. This one might be silly but the other stupid stuff that sometimes gets into his head is not worth discussing either. “Did you talk to him?”

“I did, just now,” Sam begins and Dean gestures to the low, handmade bench by the wall.

He waits until they’re sat before taking a deep breath. “Shoot.”

“There’s nothing to shoot, Dean. He only told me what he already told you yesterday.”

“Mhm,” Dean grunts, resting elbows on knees. He runs his palms across his face. “Just the whole shebang with protecting me, huh? Then why the big secret?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe he prepares it so you can move out, after all, and wants to surprise you? Didn’t tell me so I don’t spill?” he adds, before Dean can ask.

But that still doesn’t sound right. He did give it a fleeting thought before, but the idea was all too easy to push away then. After last night it barely makes sense at all.

“That ain’t it,” he decides. “He’s been too damn stubborn about it and I promised him I’d end the topic. Even if he’ll, eventually, change his mind after yesterday, he’d been planning this– this whatever for longer than that.”

Sam nods his head and, luckily, doesn’t try to give Dean the same argument, only paraphrased. He doesn’t say anything and Dean doesn’t, either. He sips his beer and remembers to offer a bottle to Sam, but the guy shakes his head.

“Besides,” Dean begins and trails off.

He rolls the bottle between his hands, starting to regret he spoke up as Sam’s stare burns the side of his head. Maybe he should have said it right away, so they’d never get to this weird intermission where Dean’s still hanging with another dozens of scenarios in his head while Sam convinces him all is fine.

“There’s something I haven’t mentioned,” he says, finally. “Before you came, Cas lied to me about some weird phone call.”

Sam leans in and doesn’t say a word while Dean rehashes the whole short story.

“I don’t suppose that was you?” Dean finishes with a scoff.

“Thursday? No,” Sam answers the rhetorical question. “But that could have been anyone, Dean.”

Dean sets the empty bottle down. He doesn’t have a strength for it right now. He’s not gonna throw around the questions he’s already mulled over in his head until they stopped sounding like questions, or like anything.

“Alright, enough about me,” he declared. “Don’t think I’ve been so absorbed by the shiftiness of my bee-eff that I didn’t noticed you’re being shifty yourself.”

“What–?” Sam begins, faking confusion, but under Dean’s intent stare, he drops the act.

“Girlfriend troubles?”

“Well,” Sam pushes himself backwards, head presses against the wall. “We broke up.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, but then he lifts his shoulders. “It simply didn’t work out. Happens.”

“Still sucks.”

“I does,” Sam adds and lets the silence fall. But before it weighs too heavy on them, he lifts his hand to push it through his hair. “You know, it’s like, it just doesn’t feel right being with someone who doesn’t know. I can keep lying, making stories about war or whatever, giving all the weirdest reasons for why I am the way I am, why I keep holy water on me, why I’m worried when she’s out alone at night, but at the end of the day I’m still all alone with it,” He takes in a long, heavy breath. “With all that between you and them, there’s just no place for honesty.”

That Dean knows something about.

“Yeah, I get that,” he offers. “I remember how it was with Cassie before I told her. And that was way before, well, everything. And even with Lisa, though she knew a lot, a lot was never enough. Hearing about it and being through it isn’t the same,” he throws, like a some reveal of a huge life mystery. “But don’t worry brother–” he slaps his palm on Sam’s shoulder–”there must be some lucky girl-in-the-know out there for Sam Winchester. Maybe you gotta find yourself an ex-huntress. Or hunter,” Dean adds with a wink.

Sam huffs a laugh. “I assure you, you’re the brother with the monopoly on a life-long closet. Really, though, I’d take a shifty Cas who gets it anytime,” he mutters with a shadow of a smile. At once, his voice gets serious as he lowers it. “Don’t let him slip away.”

Dean nods. “I’m not planning to,” he decides.

He doesn’t give a fuck about the other part, about there being no one out there who’s in-the-know enough for him, someone who’ll understand all his burdens, who’s been through them, with him. He wouldn’t fear being an eternal single, that he can deal with. The only thing he fears is losing Cas.

“Holy shit,” he says, clasping his hands, the sound thunders through the garage, “that was the longest chick-flick moment of my entire existence.” He can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes. He gets off the bench. “Excuse me, brother, but I feel like I’m gonna need a shower now.”

 

Dean throws the clean laundry into the basket and loads the red batch. He drops Sam’s socks and shirts on his bed and turns to the bedroom. He stops in the doorway, surpris to find Cas sitting on the mattress, his legs crossed under the bedsheets and the laptop open on top of them. The book that was probably taking all his attention a minute ago, now barely matters, resting back side up next to his thigh. Now it’s the dimmed screen that turns Dean invisible to his boyfriend, the text that Cas’s eyes follow in quick passes and which brings a satisfied smile to his face.

Without hesitation, the answer spills out merrily from under Cas’s fingers, as they type to the steady, unfaltering rhythm that Cas has mastered under Sam’s nerdy eye. He keeps typing for a few seconds with muscles in his cheeks still strained by the beam before he stops, awaiting a reply.

It’s a moment as good as any, Dean decides, finally forcing his mouth to move.

“She hot?” he throws the same joke again.

Like a civilian booed at by a ghost, Cas jumps with one hand spurring up to his chest, the other one to the screen. He shuts the laptop as rapidly as a kid caught jacking off to porn, with a thump so loud that it would make Dean worry about the device if he cared.

“Dean!” Cas blurts, slowly relaxing. “You should knock,” he adds, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the laptop.

Dean’s well past the eyerolls or pulling faces at Cas’s rude demand.

“Dude, it’s my room, too” he snaps.

“Uh, right, sorry,” Cas mumbles, casting his eyes down.

Dean steps inside, sets the basket on the chest of drawers and lingers there for a while sliding fingers along its edge. “So? Is she? Hot, I mean?” Dean asks again, forcing the lightness back into his voice. The whitening tips of Cas’s fingers don’t make it easy. “Or he?” he adds.

It’s supposed to be a joke. There is a reason why he started from the very bottom of the list of dark scenarios. But when a tiny sting of jealousy nags in his stomach, he’s not sure he’ll manage to get through the whole thing.

He comes over to the bed, climbs on top of it right next to Cas’s calves, so that he’s face to face with the man. He hunches his shoulders, brings his knees up to his chin to serve as a shield.

“Who?” Cas squints and the innocence of it lets Dean loosen the grip around his legs the slightest bit.

He tips his head towards the laptop, to Cas’s hold on it still as tight as if he was holding onto the Holy Grail. The device is still on, humming quietly between them. It carries all the incriminating evidence, the browser history, the inbox open with the flashing reply probably already awaiting in it.

“Who you were chatting with,” he explains, struggling to take his eyes off the black lid and back to Cas’s face.

There’s a change in it, in the creases on his forehead, now gone, in the tension in his jaw he’s trying to hide. He doesn’t even look at Dean anymore. His mouth lets out a tiny sound and Dean waits at the end of his patience for it to reshape back in a repetition of the “Who?” that doesn’t come.

“I don’t see how that would matter,” Cas says instead, unceremoniously pulling out the laptop’s plug. The device goes dead quiet at once. “Besides,” he adds, putting it off on the nightstand, “I wasn’t chatting with anyone.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

Cas might have been oblivious at first, but he’s not dumb. His eyes pop wide open as they snap back to Dean’s.

“Dean, I’m not– You can’t be possibly thinking I’m cheating on you.”

He says it like it’s ridiculous. Like the very concept of cheating on Dean is too absurd to take into an account. But the dark shape of the laptop still sits there on the nightstand as a reminder that if it’s not it, then it might something much, much worse than cheating and Dean is not sure which he prefers.

“Then why’d you lie, just now?” he asks, no longer defensive.

There’s a slow, long exhale, before Cas speaks without looking at him.

“Technically, I wasn’t chatting.” His tone is filled with something more akin to shame than smartassery and that’s the only reason Dean only clenches his jaw and stays quiet. “I’d never cheat on you,” Cas swears.

The man leans forward, lays a hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean leans to the touch that he did not deserve. He feels like an asshole for even implying that Cas would. That one option he should have crossed off his list before he even put it there.

“There is no one who would be worth losing you over, Dean,” Cas continues softly, for once never taking his eyes off Dean’s. The sincerity in them feels like a cooling balm coating his burns. “No one could ever compare to you. Not in body, not in mind.” Cas lays the words on him, slow and heavy, like desperate kisses. “Definitely not in heart. Why would I even want to consider it?”

Now it’s Dean who needs a couple of breaths. Cas has got a way with all this profound shit and Dean is just too easy to bribe with it.

“Alright, Sinead,” he mutters, safely hiding behind humor. He lifts his free hand to pull Cas’s away, but he doesn’t let go of it. “What is it then?” He doesn’t give up. “Because trust me, I can keep guessing, I’ll  hit the mark eventually.”

Cas knits his eyebrows. “I already told you.”

“Yeah, you did,” Dean mutters, eyes dropped to the sole book on the bedsheet. “I’m starting to feel like you were just trying to get off the hook.”

As he reaches for the book, Cas’s hand shoots to it as well, half-consciously, perhaps. He mitigates himself the moment his fingers graze the cover. He promptly snap them away, shame on his face.

Dean bites his lip and takes the book away. It’s thick and heavy and old as fuck. Most of the letters on the cover lost their gold marking and are now just shallow imprints in the leather. The Testament of Design. The title doesn’t tell Dean anything. He drops it back.

“Dean, I–”

“I’m not talking your little Project Protection for Dean,” Dean starts before he tries to explain himself. “I’m talking the lies.”

“Lies?” Cas echoes, playing an innocent.

“When you went–” he raises his fingers to make airquotes–”straightening your legs.”

Still the confusion, still the act. Maybe he genuinely doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about, but that’s only ‘cause he doesn’t know Dean knows.

“The phone call, Cas!” Dean growls.

Cas looks fucking spooked, paled and wide-eyed. “How much did you hear?”

“Everything,” Dean bluffs, but Cas’s face tells him the guy doesn’t buy it. “Enough of it,” he bluffs again.

Cas fucking smiles, just a shadow of a smile, but it’s there, Dean knows it too well not to notice.

“You didn’t hear anything, did you?” Cas leans back, against the wall, relaxed. “Dean, if you heard enough of it, you wouldn’t be here now asking me questions. But since you didn’t, then I’d rather keep that private for now.”

“Priv–” Dean echoes under his breath. “You know, if you’ve got an STD, that pretty much concerns me too,” he attempts to joke again, but it comes out weak. Even weaker gets his voice when the new thought appears in his head. “You’re– you’re not sick or something, are you?”

“I’m not sick,” Cas assures him, cocking head to the side. “I’m not– Dean, don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? Don’t worry that something might be going on with you? Don’t be scared that I might lose you? What, Cas?”

Dean spills his heart out. Cas turns his eyes heavenward.

“Stop guessing,” he says, pushing himself off the wall, climbing to his knees. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

His whole body shifts towards Dean, his hands find his body, eyes pierce through him. But it doesn’t feel like it could be enough now.

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Why can’t you just trust me?”

They’re in an impasse. Neither of them is willing to budge. Even though Cas’s question cuts him to the bone. Trust. Shouldn’t it be easier? If Dean doubts Cas at the very first hurdle in the new road, how long until the road cracks open and devours them?

“Just give me a ballpark,” Den begs. “Give me anything so I can shut those voices in my head.”

Cas licks his lip as he searches for the right words.

“It’s not dangerous,” he offers. “It’s nothing that will, uh, fuck us over.”

Dean can’t hold back a humorless chuckle.

“It’s a good thing, actually,” Cas continues. A smile, first shy, breaks out on Cas’s face, lits up his eyes with joy hardly tainted by the shredded atmosphere. “I think it’s pretty great. Can you try and trust me this one time?”

Dean hangs his head low in a sign of capitulation. He won’t get anything more out of Cas, not without turning this into a fight that’ll just prove he has not an ounce of trust in Cas. He’s got no choice but to wait and hope it won’t be too late by then.

How can it not be a bad thing if Cas can’t confide it into Dean?

“Okay,” Dean decides, anyway. If wait and see and try to fix later is what Cas wants, so be it.

A wide grin spreads on Cas’s face, presenting how boundless is his excitement about the mysterious thing. It’s so bright it’s contagious and Dean can’t hold back a tiny smile of his own.

“Alright, I trust you,” he adds.

Apparently his tone is not convincing enough because Cas pulls in closer to nuzzle his ear with his soft beard.

“You’ll know everything very soon, okay?” Cas whispers, before placing a trail of kisses along his jaw.

Dean considers playing stubborn for a little while longer if that’s what can get him the caress of the man’s lips across his skin, the palms slipping under the thin cotton of his shirt, but by the time the hot tongue reaches his clevis, he’s quite certain complacency can get him much more than that.

“Said I believe you,” he murmurs into Cas’s hair. “You better make it worth the wait.”

A low laugh escapes Cas’s lips as he’s fighting with the fabric for the access to Dean’s chest.

“I sure hope it’ll be,” he says, throwing the shirt to the floor. “But in the meantime–” with one swift yank he throws Dean on his back–”I can ensure the wait worth your while.”

Dean bites his lip when Cas gets to his pants. He tugs them by the elastic, pulls them down. He begins at his knees, lips climbing up the soft skin of Dean’s inner thighs until they reach the hem of the boxers. His teeth bite at the fabric and Dean lifts his butt in cooperation. But Cas is just being a tease, he keeps going up and up, licking wet trails across Dean’s stomach, chest, rolling up his cotton t-shirt and pulling it over his head.

Dean’s lips catch his mouth, before it slips back down. With one finger under his chin Dean leads him where he wants him, warm tongue sliding along his jaw, lips leaving hickeys on his neck, teeth nipping at his collarbone.

“Look at me,” Dean purrs, as he helps Cas free himself of his sweatpants and boxers and gets the favor in return.

Cas obeys, fixing his wide eyes on Dean’s face, the two, deep oceans half-obscured in the shadow, the cold, orange light dances on the deep laugh lines around them. He slips his hand under Dean’s head to bring his face closer, the tips of their noses miss each other by a hairbreadth as Cas assumes a slow rhythm.

They sway back and forth, their collisions draw deep, sharp moans from their throats and they drown them in each other’s mouths. Dean’s hand sunk in Cas’s hair steadies him. As their motions picks up the pace, their eyes never break apart, and Dean soaks in the endless adoration that fills up the vacant spaces that’s grown inside him.

In this embrace, in the midst of the white currents crashing through him, every suspicion that he dared to foster wanes, leaving behind only a shameful aftertaste. There’s just him and Cas, whose name slips out of his lungs as easy as exhales. Whose mouth forgets the shape of any other word but ‘Dean.’

Cas’s delightful grunts grow louder, this loving touches grow hastier. And when their spines become lightning rods, nearly simultaneously they arch in the pleasure, before slipping back into the other’s arms. Cas’s breath ragged and shallow nests itself in the hollow of Dean’s neck when they’ve sunk together into the mattress, Cas’s edges matching the crooks of Dean’s body.

“You’re so fucking good,” Dean croaks, as his heart begins to slow down. “So fucking good, Cas.”

Cas huffs a quivering laugh, his hand finds Dean’s hand.

“I love you,” he whispers in return and Dean laughs this time.

“Yeah. Love you too.”

It might just be those well-known words, or the warmth of Cas’s body pressed along Dean’s, or the fading scent of sex hanging in the air. It might be that solemn smile when Cas swore his secret won’t leave doom in its wake, but when Dean’s eyes, half-closed in the post-coital haze, stray to the edge of the laptop peaking out over his head, he can hardly remember how he let that anxiety to overcome him for so long.

”Sam asked if we’re up for a few rounds of poker,” Dean remembers.

Cas makes a soft sound, playing with Dean’s fingers. “When?”

“Like an hour ago,” Dean replies.

“When does he want to play?” Cas clarifies.

“Like an hour ago,” Dean repeats with a chuckle and Cas joins him in it.

“We’re terrible hosts.”

He lets go of Dean’s palm and raises to leave the bed.

“Nu-uuuuh,” Dean whines, but Cas is already sitting on the edge of the bed, back to him.

Cas leans down and returns to Dean in a moment, just to clean off his chest.

“Sam mentioned you’re leaving ‘round ten,” he makes sure, leaning over him. His moves are slow and thorough, the wipe gives off a delicate, powdery smell.

“Yeah, Sam wanna be early for the gig,” Dean replies with the tinies note of regret in his voice. He’d prefer Cas to be there when they’re taking off, instead of tutoring on the other side of town, but it’s not like an hour or two makes much difference. “But I could still persuade him to put it off an hour, ‘til you’re back”

Cas shakes his head. “I’ll take the key.”

“Wouldn’t want to lock you out of the Bunker for five days,” Dean says, amused.

Cas agrees and scrambles out of Dean’s space for good. He gathers their clothes from the floor, throws Dean’s his and starts dressing up.

“I’ll go find and entertain our house guest,” Cas announces, moving for the door.

“I’ll join you in a few,” Dean calls behind him, throwing his head back into the pillow.

He doesn’t take long before he puts his pants on, pulls the t-shirt over his head. He throws a resentful glance at the laundry basket. He knows how poker nights usually end with the three of them, he’d better start packing today if he doesn’t want to hear Sam whining that they won’t make it in time all the way to Des Moines.

He puts the bed in order, smoothens the top cover that’ll make for the make-shift table. He pulls out each item separately from the basket, inspecting it to determine which he’s gonna take or which even is his and not Cas’s. At this point, neither of them cares when it comes to t-shirts or socks. He ends up throwing half the things on the bed to pack, the rest he’ll just drop into the drawers at random.

He slides out the top drawer and when it can barely hold a single pair of boxers more, he shuts it before opening the other one, Cas’s. He should have started with this one, he decides. It’s almost empty but for a bunch of clothes, a pile of printouts covered by sockrolls and a few of Cas souvenirs that he’s gathered throughout the years – some movie tickets, the anti-possession amulet he tossed after getting it tattooed on, a nail that he drove through the skin of his palm last summer and decided to keep for some fucking reason, and other sentimental crap.

“Sap,” Dean mutters to himself, as he starts throwing the clothes in.

He stops in mid movement, a ball of socks in his fist. There’s something missing from the pile of treasures pushed into the corner. He knows it was there, he saw Cas move it in here with the rest of the oddments. Last laundry duty, it was still here.

He drops the socks back into the basket and puts both hands into the drawer. The thing is small and cylindrical, so it could have rolled under the clothes. He’s careful when he takes the clothes out and drops them on top of the fresh laundry – he wouldn’t want to miss it, he could accidently drop it or smash it. He’s not really sure if the glass those vials are made of is a regular or a special, super strong kind only produced in Heaven. He’s guessing it’s the latter, if it survived two months hanging off Cas’s neck, while Cas himself got beaten and bruised.

Cas never said why he held onto it, he just did. Sure, at first, Cas must have clung to the hope he’ll get his grace back, eventually. That night, after they sent the angels back, Cas curled his fist around the glass and pulled the silver chain over his head. He didn’t throw it away, though. Instead, he pushed the vial into the pocket of his hoodie.

Dean didn’t ask.

They arrived back at the Bunker two days later, tired from the road but ready to celebrate the big win. Sammy popped a freakin’ champagne and they drank until they emptied the bottle before switching to Jack.

It wasn’t until the morning, or rather noon, after, that Cas gathered his hoodie from the chair in Dean’s bedroom. He walked the short distance to his room, followed by Dean’s stare, but he didn’t close the door. He fished the glass vial from the pocket and kept between two fingers for a while, gazing at it, or into it, as if he was trying to find a single drop of swirling light clung to the bottom.

Dean wanted to ask, then, but he didn’t. He’d had been a witness of the very first memoir being dropped into the small drawer of the nightstand by Cas’s bed – a movie ticket from their first official date. So when Cas pulled out the drawer and gently put the vial at its bottom, he assumed it was just that, another treasure to remember the past by.

After all, Cas had confessed he didn’t want his power, his essence back.

Standing in front of a now emptied drawer, Dean’s not really sure Cas ever said exactly that. Or if he didn’t change his mind. With all the talk of protecting him, how could Dean be so blind. As an angel Cas could always bring him back to life. He’d never have to fear he’ll lose him.

“Fuck!”

Dean kicks the commode and the hit sends the jolt of pain through his foot. He barely even feels it, though. Physical ache is nothing compared to the cold grasp tightening around Dean’s throat. He presses his hands to the wooden edge for support, his head hangs low between his shoulders. Second kick and another and another. They hardly seem to expel his frustration and anger.

He stops. Ruining his foot won’t get him anywhere. And maybe, maybe he got it all wrong? Maybe Cas only displaced it? Maybe during an income of an especially sentimental mood, he took it out to reminisce, and just never put it back? Maybe it fell out of the drawer or out of Cas’s fist and shattered into pieces?

That’s a whole fucking ton of maybes and Dean’s really getting tired of those. But he doesn’t have a proof for a single one of them. If there was a way–

His eyes snap to the corridor, to the wooden door closed on its opposite side. No, he can’t, that’s not the way to go. He forces himself to look away, takes a deep breath. He starts putting Cas’s things back to the drawer, doing his best to set them exactly as they were.

“Dean?” comes Cas’s voice and Dean jumps like burned, but the man is not by the door yet. “Are you coming?”

“Just a second!” he shouts to make sure Cas hears him. He thrusts the drawer shut close and crouches to the lowest one. There’s all of the stuff they don’t really use anymore, because they don’t need to. He spots the black etui right away. “You can start shuffling the deck!”

 

Dean never lets his eyes off Cas’s face, searching for the littlest twitch, a shift of his eyes, a nervous gesture that would give him away. Despite years of practice in reading people and reading Cas, Dean’s got nada. As far as poker faces go, Cas is a master. At least in the situations when it doesn’t matter. Like during a poker game.

“I’m in,” Cas announces, pushing three silver towers of nuts into the pile in the middle of the table.

It could be either way, really, though with four tens Dean’s feeling fairly confident. Sam’s already folded, so it’s all just between him and Cas.

“I call it,” Dean announces.

Cas’s poker face finally cracks. He lays down his hand — full house. Man, that was close.

“Yeah! I win!” Dean slams his cards on the table. With both arms he drags the pool to his already impressive pile of screws and nuts that substitute for tokens. Or money, for that matter. He’s not gonna scam off the poor college kid and even poorer private tutor slash couch potato. “Man, i’m rich,” he says, pushing the nuts down his fingers like signets. ”Bow down, losers.”

“More like drunk,” Sam offers with a chuckle, collecting the cards for another round.

“I’m not drunk,” Dean answers, reaching for the bottle. His fancy rings clink against the glass. He throws his head back to drain the last drop of beer, but not even so much drips on his tongue. “Dammit! Gotta make an alco run, you guys want some?” he offers, standing up.

There are hopefully still a few more bottles in the fridge, but Cas and Sam both shake their heads.

“No thanks, I’m gonna have to drive tomorrow morning, right?” Sam explains.

That does make sense, so Dean lets him slide. He turns to Cas. “What’s your excuse, pokerface?”

“Someone has to take care of my drunk boyfriend,” Cas supplies evenly.

Dean rolls his eyes and leaves the room. Screw them, they don’t wanna drink, they don’t have to. That’s more for Dean. As he opens the fridge, it turns out he wouldn’t bring them more even if they wanted – it’s their very last bottle sitting sadly on the door shelf.

Dean fails an attempt to open the beer with one of the nuts still stuck on his fingers, so he helps himself with the opener. He swings the door under the sink to throw out the cap, but he doesn’t get the three points, as the cap falls to the floor. The failed throw turns out to be a bullseye when he stoops to collect the cap and spots a gleam of glass hidden behind the pipe.

“Sweet!” he exclaims, pulling out the untouched bottle of Jack. God knows how long that has been there, he doesn’t even remember buying it.

He grabs both bottles and three glasses and balances the risky carriage back to the room.

“Look what I’ve found. Now that’s what I call lucky.”

Cas jumps off the chair and meets him half-way to help him, he pulls the Whisky from under his elbow.

“Dean, my dearest,” Cas chirps. “I don’t think you should be starting this one now.”

Dean’s lips purse at the blatant betrayal coming from his boyfriend.

“Oh, come on Cas,” he pleads, but Cas doesn’t yield.

“I’ll take this back and go to the bathroom while I’m at it. You can start playing without me,” he says, coming back to the table for the phone he left there and disappears.

“Alright, Sammy, here’s the thing,” Dean starts as soon as he’s sure Cas is out of the earshot, as he takes off the rings one by one. “You’re gonna get Cas busy when he’s back. I’ve gotta check something.”

“What are you talking about Dean?” Sam narrows his eyes at him. “You’re still on about it?”

“There’s been a new development,” he confesses, but doesn’t specify. “I have to find out what he’s scheming in there.”

“What development?”

For a moment Sam looks like he’s ready to listen out, he even shifts his chair closer to Dean’s and shoots a glance to the door where Cas disappeared. His expression changes at once, when Dean reaches behind his back and pulls out the set of lockpicks in the etui.

“Dude, what the hell?” Sam shouts, then lowers his voice just a speck when he adds, “You wanna break into his room?”

“Shush,” Dean quiets him. The last thing he wants is for Cas to find out. He doesn’t want to hear even more bullshit explanations. “There’s something in there that I need to see. And the books too. I’ve gotta know how much he knows.”

“How much he knows about what?” Sam’s voice is still too loud, like he’s doing it deliberately.

Does he fucking want Cas to find out? Does he want it all to fall apart even if Dean’s wrong about the grace?

“I’ll tell you when I know this is what I’m afraid it is.” He stands up, then corrects, “if this is what I’m afraid it is.”

Sam’s hand shoots up to grab his wrist before he makes a big fucking mistake.

“I don’t know what spooked you so badly, Dean, but I’m telling you, this is not the right solution,” Sam explains, the grip tightens. “You don’t wanna do this. And if you were sober right now, you would never do that to him.”

Oh yes, because Dean was after five hash-brownies when he stuffed that etui into his pants.

One, sharp yank frees him of Sam’s hold and Dean stumbles a few steps backward.

“Well, tough, that’s the only solution I have.” He doesn’t leave any space for discussion as he starts towards the corridor. A few steps away, he turns. “Are you gonna do what I asked or not?”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitches. “No, Dean, I won’t be responsible for you losing the best thing you’ve ever had.”

“You’re gonna be if you don’t do this,” Dean answers and leaves it at that.

He’s not really sure what Sam will do, but he has to believe he won’t want him to get caught redhanded at breaking into Cas’s room. He sprints through the corridor on his tip-toes and stops right before the door. He leans back to peek into their bedroom, then quietly knocks on Cas’s door, just to be sure.

When there’s no answer from inside, he unzips the etui, revealing his favorite set of lockpicks. He plucks out the right pieces and hides the rest back behind his belt. Biting his lip, he bents over and slips the tension wrench into the keyhole.

It’s wrong, he knows that, he doesn’t need a conscience in the form of a younger brother to feel the burden of his action. He keeps telling himself he has no other choice, but it doesn’t make him hate himself any less. It was supposed to be Cas’s space, Cas’s only. The place to go to when he needs to take a breather, to hide after they fight, if they ever did, to lock himself in when he’s fed up with his pain in the ass of a boyfriend.

And he was never supposed to intrude uninvited. That rule was never spoken out loud only because it went without saying.

“It’s your room,” Dean had said the first time Cas had set his foot in it.

The same words he spoke as Cas carried his belongings in Dean’s – their – bedroom.

The shift had been slow at first. Cas would spend a night every once in a while after they had made love. Later his things started appearing with him; his dirty socks piling under the bed, his pink mug with a dark ring from green tea marking the inside, the most current novel he read before sleep. That last addition made Dean drag a nightstand from an adjacent room and setting it on Cas’s side of bed just so Cas would stop taking up place on his.

And yes, Cas’s side of bed — that happened too.

“Do you need my room for something or someone else?” Cas asked, when Dean showed him an empty drawer in the commode to fill with his stuff.

“No, of course not, it’s yours.”

“Then why do I need this drawer for? I won’t fit all my things in it anyway.”

“Yeah, I know, just— Uh, it’s symbolic. I want you to have some stuff in this room so it’s ours. Mine and yours. And you can keep the rest in that room, or we could find more place for you here, that won’t be a problem. I’m sure there’s a nice, termiteless wardrobe in here somewhere.”

“But then I’d have two rooms and you would only have this one shared with me.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “I want us to share the room. But that room could be your private space, if you want it.”

Cas nodded, putting his hand on the drawer. “I like it. And you don’t need private space?”

“There’s a whole bunker of private space. If I need it, I’ll find it,” he answered then, but as it turns out there is just no such thing as private space. Not with Dean around.

But that’s just what Dean is good at, breaking and escaping. Both pieces of the pickset tremble in his palms and it’s got nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he consumed, but with the trust that he’s now shattering beyond repair. After all, that thing can only go both ways.

Sam is right; what the hell is he doing? Is he so afraid of Cas fucking shit up, he’d rather go and fuck it up himself? He takes a breath as his hand begins to slip the pick out of the hole.

No, it’s no longer as simple as Cas maybe-leaving and Dean pushing him away. There more at stake here, much more. He feels for the last pin and props it up. The lock clicks open. It’s done.

With a press of the knob, Dean enters the room. It hasn’t changed much since he last saw it on Friday, except there are at least twice as many books laid down in piles on all flat surfaces. He doesn’t have much time to waste, so he starts scouring the place right away. He shoots to the nightstand first, pulls out the drawer. It takes him a few seconds to localize an object so small and see-through and for a heartbeats he hopes it’s not there.

And then he sees it. The thin silver chain, first. It leads his eyes to the vial that imprisoned Cas’s grace after Metatron stole it. They found it empty and discarded in the dick angel’s office after the siege. To Dean it could have been just a random vial, one of however the fuck many there were produced. But Cas knew. He knew before he so much as touched it.

And now Dean knows too. His fist wraps around the thing so tight it almost cracks, almost slices through the skin of his palm and gets stuck in it. He uncurls his fingers and puts the evidence back to its new place.

No, not the evidence, not yet, Dean reminds himself. He needs more. He moves to the nearest pile of books, in the corner behind the nightstand. But by the cover of dust Dean can tell those haven’t been moved in a while. And the one on top is fucking Moby Dick. Dean grunts and picks another pile.

He goes for those with black marking of dust smeared over their covers. The real culprits. He flips through the books, mouthing the titles. He recognizes some of them, ancient magic; druidic, aztecian, slavic. Pretty much everything he could think of and more, none he can understand. He stops for a moment by a few latin and enochian books, piled away in another corner. Looks like they were the first ones to migrate here from the library.

He pauses, trying to figure out the plan. Frantic skimming through all titles won’t give him much. A map, would be a much more helpful sign. A map of the States, a map of the world or a map of the entire fucking galaxy. But there’s nothing like that.

Plan C involves keeping his eye out for the word “angel.” That plan, unfortunately, brings him better results. It’s not really a book that Dean’s holding. More of a folder of files with a big, red ‘classified’ stamped on the first page. “On The Inner Workings Of Angels” the title says and Dean reads it twice, just in case the letters switched places in front of his drunk eyes. But no, Cas is not learning about the mysteries of geometry.

“The hell is this?” Dean mutters to himself, slumping on the mattress.

He flicks through pages and pages of notes about angels. Detailed descriptions and diagrams, references to the Bible, to Milton and to the actual fluffy-winged dicks from the above. From what he can say a lot of it is old news. But there’s stuff that is new to him as well: the anatomy of wings, the physical properties of graces, a section about what must be angel medicine, with scalpels, saws and huge, fucking syringe. On the second thought it might double for the torture section, as well.

He shuts the file and holds it to his chest, anyway. There might be more of this in here, but he’s already got enough to incriminate Cas. He’s done with sitting in this room smelling of dust and guilt and betrayal.

 

“I told him you passed out in bed,” Sam informs Dean, when he finds them in the TV room, his voice hushed.

Dean’s eyes turn to Cas, curled on the couch, his chest slowly rising and falling to an even rhythm. “Is he sleeping?”

Sam nods. “You’re lucky I managed to keep him here.”

Dean has to force his eyes to turn away from the man he loves, the fucking liar. He gestures to Sam to follow him to the kitchen. He doesn’t want to risk Cas stirring awake and overhearing them.

“Thanks, Sammy, for hiding my ass,” Dean begins, slumping into a chair.

Sam doesn’t say ‘no problem’ or any other pleasantry. He sits next to Dean and cuts to the chase. “What did you find out?”

A bitter chuckle resounds deep in Dean’s throat.

“Exactly what I expected,” he says. It sounds safer than ‘exactly what I feared.’

Sam awaits, impatiently, but Dean just shakes his head. “I’d rather talk to him first, if that’s okay.”

The man agrees. “If you need me, I’m here,” he offers.

“Yeah. Thanks for that too.”

They go quiet and Dean nearly forgets why he called him here. Sam knows, though, he doesn’t even need to be told.

“I’m assuming we’re calling tomorrow off?”

Dean nods. “Mhm,” he grunts for a good measure. “I’m sorry about that, but I can’t leave now. This whole trip was his idea, so I can’t help thinking, he had to be planning something for when we’re away, right?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sam confirms his suspicion. “Don’t worry about the trip, Dean. We can go in the summer.”

“Yeah, we can,” Dean mutters, really hoping it’s true. Praying that in the summer the world – their world – will still be the same.

“You gonna talk to him now?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. He gets off the chair and gets to the cupboards. He starts with the one under the sink, but the bottle isn’t there, so he keeps checking every possible hiding place until he finds Jack behind the sanitizers. He doesn’t even have the power to comment on Cas treating him like an alcoholic, when Cas, apparently, treats him like a child in need of a constant, angelic protection.

He pours the whisky to the glass, three, four, five fingers, he doesn’t care. Sam still refuses, even though he’s lost his excuse. His new excuse is going to bed soon. Well, Dean’ll just have to drink the bottle alone.

“Are you guys gonna be okay?” Sam asks, putting his palm on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean takes a long sip of his drink. “Doubt that,” he mutters, truthfully.

Sympathy twists Sam’s face.

“Go to bed, kid,” Dean says. “It’s gonna get tough soon.”

Reluctantly, Sam leaves Dean alone in the kitchen. But Dean doesn’t stay there for long. He grabs his glass and the bottle and gets back to the TV room, where Cas still snores on the couch. Though his head’s a little spinning, Dean does his best to remain quiet and gentle, as he lifts Cas’s head off the pillow and slips underneath it.

There’s some game going on TV, but for Dean’s it’s just white noise. His eyes flicker up to it when the commentator’s voice grow excitement, but then they fall back to the sleeping man, his fingers never stop running through the wavy locks of his overgrown hair, playing with the curls swirling at his nape.

For a little bit longer, all is as it’s supposed to be. There’s no fucking grace hunt, no vessel blowing up in clouds of liquid light. There’s just Cas, sleeping softly and soundly on Dean’s lap, just where he belongs. Where they both belong.

Tomorrow, Dean’s gonna confront Cas and he won’t stop this time until Cas confesses every last thing. He won’t let it go just because it’s easier to believe Cas’s lies and pretend it’s gonna be alright. He’ll try to persuade him, first, not to do it. He’ll puke his lungs out, crying and begging, if he has to.

And if that doesn’t help, Dean’s gonna join him.

What other choices does he even have?

But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, if only for tonight, Dean’s gonna keep pretending. He reaches for the remote and shuts the yell of the commentator down. There it is, right on top of Cas’s queue, that fucking movie they never got around to watching, after all. He lowers the volume and presses play.

“You sure you wanna miss this?” he blurts to sleeping Cas. He doesn’t even twitch as Dean sets his glass and shifts a little to more comfortable position. “It’s got Chris Evans butt-naked,” he purrs, brushing the curls behind Cas’s ear. A small sound escapes Cas’s mouth, but he doesn’t stir. Dean smiles. “He’s got nothing on you, though.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dean’s arms still remembered the form of his brother from when he’d embraced him for the last time before the check-in. It wasn’t gonna be forever, of course, but he was still leaving. Leaving the life, leaving Dean. He’d waved them goodbye with a huge grin on his face. He was going off to start a new life, better life, without his older brother’s constant presence in it.

Dean and Cas were all they both got left. They sat on the Impala’s hood on the airport’s parking lot, fingers entangled, they watched the colossal machines take off, raise up and fly away until they were nothing but moving lights in the sky, then nothing at all.

“I think that’s his,” Cas said, poking Dean with his elbow and pointing to the ascending airplane.

It was the right airline and the right time. Dean couldn’t read the number off the site, but he still noded.

“Yeah, that’s his,” he muttered. “My little brother, flying off to the big world.”

He allowed himself for a dreamily tone, even if those weren’t his dreams that were coming true. He couldn’t hold up a smile on his face when the next words spilled out of his mouth.

“Can you believe Sammy’s leaving us behind, just like that?”

Cas’s thumb began to rub soothing circles into his palm.

“He’s leaving you behind,” he corrected, trailing the machine in its flight across the sky.

Dean’s eyes darted to the man. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Cas began, slower, “that he’s leaving you, not us.”

There was a soft smile dancing on his lips. His blue eyes never let go of Sam’s plane, until it disappeared behind a cloud. And once the plane was gone, Cas turned his head to Dean, his stare pierced through him, eyebrows slanted upwards in sympathy.

“He’s leaving you, just like everybody leaves you,” he reminded him, cocking his head to the side. “You know that, Dean.”

Dean drew a sharp breath.

“Yeah,” he huffed, mustering a smile until every single muscle in his face ached from the strain. “But not you, Cas, right?” he asked with his cracking voice. He had to make sure. “You’re staying with me, right?”

Cas’s chest rose up beneath the beige fabric, his back straightened up. Dean yanked back, his palm slipped out of Cas’s hold.

“Oh Dean,” his lover began as his dress shoes hit the ground, grief and joy mixing in his voice. “Why would I stay?” he asked, now standing straight before Dean.

“Cas,” Dean begged, reaching out his hand to Cas’s face, but his face was now so foreign, even if it was still so familiar. “Please.”

But instead of stepping forward, returning into Dean’s space, Cas took a step back. He lifted his arms at his sides, his blue tie waved in the wind.

“Cas!” Dean called, trying to jump off the hood, to follow Cas, but he was frozen to the cold metal.

Two wide shadows spread behind Cas, reaching far to the both sides of the bright-lit building.

“Goodbye, Dean,” Cas said and, before Dean could utter another syllable, he, too, flew away and out of Dean’s life.

“Cas!” a screech rips out of Dean’s throat as he jerks forward to catch him, grab him by his stupid trenchcoat and hold in place.

The only thing that ends up in his embrace are heaps of sheets, pressed to his pounding heart. The dry air slices his throat as his lungs pump it in and out like they’re taking part in a marathon. And his head swirls too, his every move knocks the whole bed over and he spins and spins until the nightmare fades enough to let him go from its grasp.

It was just a nightmare, nothing more, but it lingers over Dean’s skin and in the marrow of his spine. He needs to feel Cas, get back into his embrace that the terror ripped him out of. He turns around, despite the dull ache in his brain and nausea flooding his stomach. With his eyes still closed, he reaches out, but until its very edge, there is nothing but an empty mattress.

He opens his mouth, but his tongue is too heavy and dry, lying behind his teeth. When he finally manages to crack open the sandboxes of his eyes, it doesn’t really give him shit. It’s pitch dark in his dungeon of a bedroom and fuck knows what time it is. Her runs a hand over his face, struggling for recollection.

How did he even get to bed? All he remembers from the previous night is the stupid rom-com on TV, Cas’s head resting on his lap, the whiskey, though of that his pounding head never let him forget.

He never went to bed, at least not on his own; not awake enough or sober enough to register the trek through the corridors. But he’s in bed, so thank fuck – or thank Cas, probably – he doesn’t have to deal with hurting back and stiffened neck on top of all the rest. He’s never drinking again.

Why did he even drink so fucking much. Don’t they have that trip planned for today? Or they don’t. He might have lost track. Did they call it off? He lifts a hand to his jaw, scrapes at his prickly stubble. Whether they’re going or not, he should get up and make some breakfast for Cas, before he leaves for–

Cas.

Fuck.

He sits up and regrets it right away, as his head sends him spinning down on a roller coaster. He takes a few seconds before turning to his nightstand. He pulls the chain and the orange light strikes his eyeballs with a dozen of needles. He blinks a few times, reaching for his phone, but his fingers encounter a tall glass. There’s water waiting for him to drown his thirst and ease his sandpaper in his mouth. Next to it, stands a plastic bottle of Aspirin.

Dean shakes two pills on his palm and washes them down with the water. As he sets the glass down, he notices a sheet of paper folded in half. He squints and focuses on the squiggly writing.

I hope this will help a little. Enjoy your trip. Missing you already. Love, Cas.

“Thanks,” Dean grunts, slapping the note back on the nightstand and downing the rest of water.

He checks the time, twice: it’s not even eleven yet.

He gathers himself off the bed, still in his sweatpants and yesterday’s shirt, and takes his time crossing the dark corridor. He finds Sam in the main room, sitting by the table and chewing on some rabbit food.

“Where’s Cas?” Dean croaks in lieu of good morning.

Sam shoots him a sympathetic glance. He must look even worse than he feels. “Should be back from the lessons soon.”

“You saw him leaving?”

“He did tell you he’s tutoring today, right?” The man sets down the fork, pulls scoops a piece of paper off the table. “He left this in the bowl,” he informs with a smirk. “I took the key. Have fun. Cas,” he reads out. “This is adorable.”

“Yeah, he’s adorable,” Dean grumbles, taking his place. “So you let him slip out?” he accuses.

It’s not fair, he knows, it was not Sam’s job to watch him. That was on Dean and he failed because he prefered to drink himself stupid, instead. And Sam might repeat that he went teaching French to one of the neighbors all he wants. Dean’s got a bad feeling he can’t shake off.

He keeps checking the clock on his phone every damn minute. Each time his movements lose a little more patience, his stomach knots a little tighter.

“Go take a shower, he’ll be back before you’re done,” Sam advises when the screen lights up for the tenth time.

“I’ll go when he’s back.”

He lights the screen again. Eleven strikes, then quarter past, then half past. Cas should be here by now. His finger hesitates over the dial button until the screen goes black.

“Maybe he dropped by a store?” Sam supplies, earning himself a scowl.

“You covering for him or what?” Dean slams an open palm against the table. “Did he drag you to his side? Wait–” he begins, the thought comes nagging at his brain. It’s ridiculous, yet he spills it, “Did he tell you what he’s planning?”

“What? No!” Sam protests. “Come on, Dean, you know he didn’t tell me.”

It doesn’t really calm Dean down. Maybe if Sam knew Cas’s scheme and approved of it, Dean could trust it. It couldn’t be such a bad thing is the two of them agreed on it. But Sam insists he doesn’t know, so Dean just grinds his teeth and checks the time again.

“I must look like the worst boyfriend ever,” Dean says under his breath. Not that it matters what Sam thinks about that or any other detail of their relationship. But he still needs to hear it.

“Why? Because you’re worried?”

Dean swallows hard, toying with the phone in his palm.

“Because I don’t trust him,” he confesses.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but then changes his mind. He shifts in his chair to face Dean, lips curved in compassion. Dean got himself into it and this time he won’t swivel out.

“Please, don’t get me wrong. I love Cas,” he assures. “I love him so fucking much that I can’t imagine–” he cuts off the words that won’t pass his throat. “And that only makes it harder not to worry. But I– Well, I can’t. I know I should trust him but I can’t. Not now, not with this. There’s just too much to lose here.” He takes a deep breath, eyes cast to his palms. “Bee-eff of the fucking year.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to hear. That he’s overreacting? That he did fuck up and doesn’t deserve so much as a glance from Cas, let alone his love? But Sam doesn’t say either of these things.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, instead.

“What?” Dean grunts, taken aback. “What does that–?”

“Do you?” Sam insists.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, I do. Now,” he adds seriously.

“Did you always?”

What kind of fucking question is this, coming from a guy who betrayed him for a demon. Dean grinds his teeth. He hates himself for bringing that up, after all this time. Even if only in his thoughts.

“Enough, Sam,” he hisses. “What are you trying to prove?”

“Well, exactly,” he states simply, as if he’s already proved whatever it is. He doesn’t even look hurt. Seeing the lack of comprehension on Dean’s face, he continues. “And I don’t always trust you. After you let Gadreel inside my body I thought I would never be able to trust you again. Even as we kept working together, even when we sent the angels back. The truth is, if we didn’t get out of the life, if I didn’t move out–”

“So you’re saying I should move out without Cas?” Dean questions. “Or should I be happy he’s left? Which is it?”

“N– what? No, that’s not what I said!” Slightly annoyed by his brother’s, apparently stupid, questions, he pushes a hand through his messy hair and tries again, the Winchester history with annotations. “What I’m saying is that the three of us have been through a lot of shit and that at times we really hurt one another. Sure, we did all of it for what we believed were the right reasons, but that doesn’t change the outcome. Maybe we’re all just not that trustworthy.”

Dean blinks at him, trying to figure out if this time he got it right, because he’s not sure that the lesson Sam has just given him was the one the guy wanted to teach.

“Wow that was really fucking helpful,” Dean snarls, the tension in his belly tugging even stronger at his insides. “Amazing pep talk.”

What was that? Some bullshit absolution for his lack of trust? He doesn’t need that. He needs fucking facts, and only Cas can give provide them.

“You should publish a book or something, Sammy,” he adds, fetching the phone of the table and leaving the room.

“Pick the fucking phone,” Dean growls into the phone as the dial tone beeps in the speaker.

He swears loud and ends the call before it sends him to the voicemail. As he’s about to hit redial, the phone buzzes in his palm, Cas’s grin appears on the screen above his name.

“Dean,” the man’s voice purrs into Dean’s ear and Dean breathes out the air he’s been holding. “How do you feel?”

The relief is, however, only momentary, it gives way to the anger that has pent up inside him.

“I’m fucking peachy.”

He can practically hear Cas frown through the phone. “Did you take the Aspirin? I left it for you on the nightstand.”

“I did, thanks,” Dean spits. He enters the bedroom as he says it, turns the nightlight on. The handwritten note is lying where he left it. “Some caring boyfriend you are.”

He doesn’t want this phone call to be this way, he really doesn’t. Not if it might as well be their last one. But he can’t help it: the hurt, the betrayal, they’re no longer his imagination. All the feelings that have built up to this point, finally get their time to shine.

“Is– is everything okay? How far are you?”

Cas still playing dumb doesn’t really help Dean contol his voice.

“Oh, not far. You?”

“I–?” The question surprises Cas. This one he didn’t foresee in his little plan, did he?

“What?” Dean chirps melodically, slumping on the bed. “You’re not gonna tell me you’re on your way home? Got lost somewhere for almost an hour?”

“Dean, I’m–” he still tries but then he must begin to realize that he’s not gonna get out of this one. “You haven’t left yet, have you?” he asks, resigned.

“Bingo,” Dean mocks. “We haven’t. And we’re not leaving, at all. Sorry to ruin your grand scheme.”

Cas doesn’t have a risposte to that. As he goes quiet, other sounds get through to Dean. People talking, the sound of the engine, the cars passing by. He’s on a bus, putting the distance, literal distance, between them. Dean chastises his stupid head for resending the alarm signal to every part of his body. What else did he expect?

“What, you lost your tongue? No more excuses prepared for me?”

Cas’s breath hisses in the speaker and for a moment Dean’s sure he’s got another lie coming his way.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says lowly. Dean lifts his eyebrows. “I need you to know I wasn’t trying to deceive you.”

Dean hides face in his palm. “Then what? Maybe you just, I don’t know, didn’t want to worry me?” He gives out a humorless chuckle. “Because, guess what, you fucking did.”

“Yes, that,” Cas admits like he didn’t hear the other part. “And I also knew you wouldn’t let me go otherwise.”

“Let you–” He wheezes in a sharp breath. “Of course I wouldn’t let you go!”

Though maybe I should, he wants to add, but the words get clogged in his throat. They spill like toxic waste down his airways and swell in his bronchi and lungs into rocks. But Dean couldn’t care less about suffocating, that kind of death would have been gentler. He doesn’t need every last cell in him yelling its come backs to know that if he spat all of his hurt out, he wouldn’t be able to live with the consequences.

“Dean, if I can just expl–”

“I know what you’re doing!” Dean bellows into the speaker, before the rest of Cas’s words spill out.

It shuts Cas up and yet again Dean’s faced with silence. Before Cas speaks again, careful, “What am I doing?”

He’s testing him, feeling for how deep in trouble he is. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. He’d much rather hear it all from Cas so he can no longer treat him to some bullshit red herring. But Cas remains quiet, awaiting his answer.

“Where are you going?” Dean asks, instead. “I’ll catch you there.”

He sounds desperate but he doesn’t care anymore. If this is his last chance to return Cas from his destructive path, he’ll do whatever it takes.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Cas repeats the question, calmer, like he’s assumed Dean’s bluffing.

“You’re tracking your grace.”

There, he said it. And through the phone he has no damn chance of convincing Cas to change his mind. If he could be there, look him in the eyes, if he could touch him, kneel, beg, maybe Cas would understand that’s not the right way. Or maybe he’d at least take pity on him and listen.

But now all Dean’s got is words. Or not even that. Before he can get out one, Cas laughs softly. A relief, rather than a ridicule.

“I’m not,” he says, simply.

“Don’t lie.”

“Dean, I’m not tracking my–” he pauses, then quieter, as if afraid of being overheard by other passengers, he repeats, “I’m not looking for it. Where’d you even get that idea?”

Dean doesn’t answer. If this one time, somehow, Cas isn’t lying – if he hasn’t lied, really lied, before– If there’s a chance for that, maybe Dean should leave them a leeway to lead them home instead of going all in.

Cas reads from his silence.

“Did you go to–?”

“The vial,” Dean cuts in before the question forces him to be a liar too. “It was missing from your drawer. I noticed, sorting laundry.”

“It’s in my room.”

“Yeah–” he pauses, nearly spilling out the ‘I know.’ “Okay.”

Dean wishes he didn’t drink the entire water from the glass. He could use some right now.

“Then what are you doing? Where are you going? Why now?” he starts sputtering out the questions. “Is it because I was nagging you about moving out? Or is it something else I did?”

“No,” Cas starts from the end. “It’s not about you, I mean, it is, but not about what you did. It’s because of who you are to me.”

Damsel in distress, Dean thinks bitterly, but he stays quiet and waits for Cas to go on.

“Remember when I told you it’s a good thing? That it’s not dangerous?” Cas is back to the same damn arguments from these past days.

Dean scratches his temple. “You and I might have different definitions of ‘dangerous.’”

Cas chuckles. “Then what’s the definition of ‘nothing bad will happen to me?”

“That would be ‘I’m coming back,’” he supplies, quietly, vulnerable.

He doesn’t share the brief spur of Cas’s good mood. Maybe if he knew, he’d have a reason to chuckles as well over their little quip.

“How about ‘I’m coming back tomorrow night?’” Cas offers, his voice still light.

Dean blinks. “Really?”

He doesn’t let down his guard yet.

“Yes,” Cas answers quickly.

“Huh, do you want me to pick you up?”

“That’d be great. Reggie wouldn’t have to drive alone in the middle of the night.”

Oh, so he involved a teenage girl into his intrigues, but not a peep for Dean.

“You sound surprised,” Cas comments. “What did you think?”

Frankly, Dean doesn’t know what he thought. His darkest scenario that wrapped itself around his neck like a deadly scarf, has promised him the rest of forever without Cas. The more reasonable ideas that still counted two plus two as four, assumed a few days, at least. Until the end of the brotherly road trip.

“Nevermind,” he mutters, finally feeling like the heavy mass inside his stomach begins to thaw.

“Can you trust me, Dean?” he pleads, voice lowered. “This one time, please.”

He wants to, he really wants to trust. Believe that Cas knows what he’s doing. That he’s not needlessly reckless, that he doesn’t put Dean’s life and health over his own.

“Do I really have a choice?” he says into the speaker. A corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit. “Just be careful, please,” he adds and just before they’re about to say their goodbyes, he adds, “Oh, and fair warning: if you don’t come back and your body turns up dead somewhere, I swear to God, I’ll do something incredibly stupid to bring you back and kick your ass and you’ll feel bad about making me do it.”

Cas huffs out a laugh. “Noted,” he confirms. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

It doesn’t get easier after that, but this time Dean is trying. He promised Cas that he would trust him, but he never realized trusting is such a hard work. And he’s got too much time to kill without having all his old and new scenarios replaying in his head like a home cinema.

He begins with apologizing to Sam for his outburst, although that he probably took from the twelve steps program.

“Forget it, Dean,” Sam says. “Honestly, I’m not sure myself what I was trying to accomplish.”

“You wanted to help,” Dean replies, handing Sam the gamepad. “Honestly, this weekend Cas shortened my lifespan like two years, at least,” he jokes.

Their fingers start a frantic dance on the keys as they try to finish each other’s players out.

“I worry about him too, you know,” Sam confesses. “And about you. And about you and Cas,” he adds with a smile. He follows with a chuckle. “And I’m gonna be a lawyer on top of all that, so you really don’t want to start a bid here.”

Dean joins him with a soundless laugh and elbows him to the side. Sam takes revenge as his bearguy suckerpunches Dean’s enchantress.

“Oh dude, the game is on,” Dean roars and ends up popping out a button in his gamepad in the eleventh round.

The next part of trusting is harder. He might generally suck at words, but he sucks at self-control even more. He takes that damned pickset first, then walks over to his bed. He lifts the mattress and pulls out the folder of files about angels he stole from Cas’s room.

In the files there’s everything they’ve ever found out about the angels and so much more that they will hopefully never need. But it’s not the angels that Dean’s interested in. It’s whether it’s this book that gave Cas his secret ideas, or whether he’d need to go through rune and every other squiggle collected in that room.

But he’s not gonna look for that answer. He’s already tried and it didn’t really end all that well. He keeps the folder tightly shut under his arms as he picks Cas’s lock again. This time most of the guilt is just the aftertaste. He puts the folder where he found it, or at least where he believes he did. He was quite drunk, after all.

He doesn’t let his eyes stray off track and search for other damning titles. Maybe except for that briefest glance he sends to the nightstand drawer. He nearly runs out of the room, not to give in to temptation. He throws the etui on his bed, dusts off his hands and goes to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

But the hardest turns out to be the evening. Not that he didn’t expect it to be. Normally at the foresight of any trouble with sleep, he’d reach for the bottle. He’s pretty sure there’s still some of that Jack left. But it kind of feels like going to bed sober is a part of the deal. Jumping back to a habit he managed to leave behind seems to be the opposite of trust.

He crawls on top of the mattress and rolls over to Cas’s side. He drags his own pillow with him, he wouldn’t be able to sleep on Cas’s freaking pancake. Cas’s side of bed smells of his favorite shower gel. And of Cas.

He nuzzles his nose to Cas’s sheets and leaves the nightlight on. Still, as he closes his eyes, his mind can’t help to wander to all the places Dean shouldn’t let it. There’s a particularly gruesome idea, involving Cas’s body dumped in a dumpster, displaying in his head, when his phone vibrates on Cas’s nightstand.

Dean’s hand shoots to the device at the hope of Cas’s voice on the other side, but it’s just a text message.

I hope you had a nice day, Dean. Just to spare you further worrying, ‘the thing’ is done and all is good. You can now sleep well. Love, Cas.

He reads the text three times, before he tries to decide whether he should feel the relief or let the concern consume him whole. He’d much rather hear Cas’s voice saying the same words, to know if it even is Cas and not someone pretending to be him.

There must be a reason Cas texted not called, so instead of hitting dial right away, Dean types: Can I call u? and presses send.

I’ll call you tomorrow, he gets in an answer.

He bites his lower lip and puts the phone back on the nightstand. He falls asleep breathing in Cas’s smell, but it doesn’t bring him dreams any better than the night before.

 

The next day, Cas calls Dean way past noon, when Dean’s on his way to the store. Knowing Cas, he didn’t really think through the small details, like food, when he planned the trip, focusing on the more important stuff like tricking Dean into letting him slip out. Dean stops mid-step and yanks the phone out with the first buzz.

“Hi, Cas,” he greets him and holds his breath for a beat, anxious that Cas’s voice will be replaced by something unrecognizable.

“Dean,” Cas replies and it’s undeniably him, his voice a little lower, coarse as though he’s had no one to talk to since yesterday.

It’s so good to hear him Dean can’t help a small smile creeping on his face.

“How do you feel after yesterday’s, huh, what was it again you were doing?” he asks, knowing it won’t work, but it can’t hurt either.

“Nice try, Dean,” Cas grunts, amused. “And I’m good. How have you been?”

Dean snorts. Sure, he’s the one to be worried about here. He sighs and takes a seat on a bench in the shade of a pine.

“Okay, kinda boring without you moping around. Sam broke my gamepad so I’m calling dibs on yours,” he jokes. “You’ll be fine without the x, right?”

“You can’t call dibs on it, it’s already mine,” Cas whines on the other end of the line. “You were the one who broke it, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits.

There’s still something wrong with his voice, even as they keep chatting about unimportant things. His normal gravel timbre has gained a rusty nail and sandpaper quality to it. Some of the sounds that come out of his throat are grating even filtered through the phone speaker.

And it’s not just the voice. It’s the way pattern, too, the pauses between the words, the grunts as if he strained himself just moving around. Maybe he’s just tired, a little ruffled up after whatever he did yesterday.

“Are you sick, Cas?” Dean asks, finally.

If Cas denies or refuses to give him the answer, or better yet, if he rasps out a ‘don’t worry,’ Dean’s gonna find a way to punch him through the microphone.

Luckily for him, Cas gives him a semi-straight answer for once. “You mean my throat? Yeah. It’s been raining all day yesterday.”

“I’ll come get you,” Dean offers. “You didn’t mention your train’s here at three in the morning.”

“I’m pretty certain I used words ‘middle of the night,’” he argues.

It takes a little more convincing until Cas agrees to be picked up at the motel in the evening. He still has something to do, he says, just when Dean thought the rough part was over.

“Out of the two of us, I think it’s you who watches too much TV,” Cas tells him, a propos of nothing.

“It’s called vivid imagination,” Dean replies. “And experience, too, unfortunately.”

“This part doesn’t even have anything to do with me, I swear.”

Which only means the first did and Cas admits it, at last.

“Can I ask you something, Cas?”

“Of course.”

Dean takes a deep breath, nearly backs out, but he needs to know. And now, before he stands with him face to face.

“Cas, are you–?” he trails off, leaves the rest for Cas to guess.

“Alive?” Cas asks, amused. “Yes, I am.”

“Human,” Dean whispers.

“Yes,” Cas answers without hesitation. “Would I sound like crap if I wasn’t?” he jokes, lightly, but more serious adds, “And when we meet this evening, I’ll still be human.”

Dean nods before he remembers Cas can’t see him. “Good.”

“I’d still stay,” Cas says so softly even the rust disappears from his voice, “you know that, Dean, right? If I wasn’t human, I’d still stay with you.”

“I know, Cas. I know.”

 

When Dean drives into the motel’s parking lot, Cas is already waiting on the bench with the duffel bag sitting beside him. He’s wrapped tight in a coat, head hung low, but as the headlights grace his form, he lifts a hand to wave at the man behind the windshield. Dean turns the car to the left and pulls it to a halt a few feet away from Cas.

He doesn’t try to hold back a wide grin when he sees Cas safe and sound. He leans to the passenger door and opens them for him, yet still jumps out of the car before Cas scrambles himself off the bench. The guy’s moves are a little sluggish, as if he stayed up all day and all night and just now started crashing.

“Hey, shifty,” Dean greets him, resting his elbows on the roof of the car, as he waits for the guy to get in.

Cas grunts a hello with his changed voice, smiling softly at Dean above the car before slumping heavily on the front seat. Dean bends down to join him, he slips into his spot as Cas wraps the edges of his black coat around his body. The duffel finds its place on his lap like a treasure.

Dean turns the heating up and flips the light on to inspect Cas. The yellow glow paints the circles underneath his eyes darker than the moonlight did, but they’re only that, marks of exhaustion on his ashen skin, not black and blue bruises, cuts and fractures from a fight. Good. Fighting doesn’t really fall into the category of non-dangerous activities.

Dean’s fingers itch to turn the light off, to let Cas’s face sink again in the gentle blue. Instead, he reaches out to his cheek, thumbs the prickling stubble along his jaw. The corners of Cas’s lips curl up in a tired smile.

“Not to be an asshole, but you look like crap,” Dean informs him, in case he didn’t realize.

Cas huffs out something akin to a laugh. “Thanks.”

“How bad is it?” Dean questions, still examining his face, as if he could read off it anything more than tiredness.

Cas doesn’t move under Dean’s tender touch, doesn’t shift away as his fingers climb up his cheekbone, brush off the locks of hair on his temple and reach his forehead. The palm remains there for a moment, checking the temperature.

“I think you have a slight fever,” Dean decides, though he can’t say for sure.

“It’s not bad,” Cas croaks, successfully undermining his own words as he says them. He lowers his voice. “Just tired. I need some rest, warm bed. You.”

It already seems a little bit better than a few hours ago, unless it was the phone’s speaker that turned Cas’s sweet timbre so grating. He sounds now like Dean used to after every good concert. Some hot tea with honey and he’ll be fine.

Dean laughs. “Oh yeah, c’mere, Dean Winchester’s the best cure for anything,” he announces.

He flips the light off and brings hands back to the steering wheel. As they sink in the momentary darkness, so does Dean’s heart sink. There are only so many applicable situations that require enough screaming to render one half-mute, and no concert calls for this much secrecy.

“When you texted last night, was it because you couldn’t speak?” he asks, as they begin to roll off the parking lot.

“Partially,” Cas admits, but doesn’t elaborate.

“And the other part?” Dean inquires. “You had company or what?”

Cas turns his face away, to the trees passing behind the window.

“I thought this is gonna be the end of it, Cas.”

“Can we wait ‘til we’re home?” Cas proposes.

This, at least, begins to sound like a set deadline. Three and some hours away. Dean nods.

“Okay,” he mutters with a little reluctance. “Then how about this: why Omaha?”

Cas sighs. “Are we going to do this all the way home?”

“Depends,” Dean answers and takes the turn left. “So?”

“Omaha is halfway to Sioux Falls.”

Dean’s head snaps to the man. “Sioux Falls?”

“Claire,” he answers plainly.

Dean’s eyes widen for a second. “Claire?” he echoes. “What did you need Claire for?”

Cas takes his time unbuttoning his coat, as if the car warmed up to a hundred degree within a minute.

“She was my assistant and advisor,” he says, at last, pushing hair out of his eyes. “The phone call that concerned you so much last week, it was Claire.”

“Then why’d you delete it from the history?” Dean blurts, before he can think  it through.

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Next time he combs through his boyfriend’s phone, he probably shouldn’t confess to it.

But Cas just shrugs. “If you knew it was her, you’d keep nagging her until she yielded.”

Dean purses his lips. It’s true, he totally would do that.

“It was hard enough for me to keep this from you,” Cas admits, still without mentioning his crime. “That’s why I hid Claire’s involvement and didn’t tell Sam either, though it would be much easier to coordinate it with him–”

“It’s a brave assumption that Sam would support you in this,” Dean chimes in.

“That’s true. I don’t know if he’d support me on every step,” he agrees.

“But Claire did?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

They drive in silence for a while, Dean chews on the revelations. Claire’s still a kid and reckless adventures might seem exciting, especially if Cas sold her all that romantic crap about protection. Her approval isn’t end all to Dean’s concerns.

He’s still got questions: why was she here? What was her role as an assistant? But he refuses to hear half-assed explanations, in which Cas maneuvers around the main topic. Instead, Dean turns on the music. An upbeat sound of the poppy love song floods the car, flowing through the speakers straight from Cas’s iPod. It’s as good a thing as any to fill the strange air between them.

Dean takes eyes off the road ever so often to glance at Cas’s profile, blueish in the light of the fool moon. The corner of his lips pulls up as the song goes into the chorus, but with his voice at the risk of disappearing for good, he can’t allow them much more than a quiver, where the words are supposed to start flowing, where the high parts should hit the dangerously off-key notes.

Tonight, Dean will have to fill in for him. His mouth follows the words. His perfect knowledge of lyrics, obviously, does not come from the fondness for the song but the number of times he’s heard it, of course. Everyone would learn the stupidly simple words eventually. And the ability to synchronize them with Cas has definitely been an extra point.

His hands bang against the wheel to the drumbeat. He’s not the best singer, himself, but he’s certainly an unabashed one. His lone struggle against the singer’s high-pitched solos earns him a chuckle from Cas. The bridge, at last, has got him swaying lightly to the sides, his legs bouncing up and down to the rhythm.

Dean throws his palm up in the air for a truly horrible finale that hits closer to gnawing of a lonely werewolf than to an actual note of the song. But that doesn’t matter for shit, when the car fills with Cas’s laughter and the song on the iPod shuffles for a Mumford and Sons wannabe.

Cas’s face glows, the beam drowns out the shadowy circles that marred his image. There’s only the crow’s feet surrounding his eyes, all the lovely laughing lines he’s earned like trophies throughout his human years.

Dean reciprocates the smile Cas sends him, and pushes his free hand into Cas’s hair, runs it through his messy locks, then slips it lower, his thumb caresses his hairy cheek in the best proxy of a kiss Dean’s capable of while driving. His fingers tuck a dark strand behind his ear, fingertips graze the soft skin as they slide towards his neck.

Cas jerks away from his touch, as if Dean drove a pin through his skin. Not sure what happened, Dean pulls his hand back to the wheel, looks to Cas shily.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” Cas answers. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Dean murmurs, but he doesn’t dare to reach out to him for now.

He fixes his eyes on the road ahead, until something else doesn’t catch his attention, a dark smudge on his fingernail. He inspects it for a moment, a liquid, black in the moonlight. He knows it too well. He turns to Cas just to catch him trying to wipe the black trail with his palm. It streams down his neck from behind his ear and doesn’t seem to stop.

The Impala swerves dangerously, as Dean’s hand shoots to Cas’s neck, his face no longer alight. He touches the wet trail, before Cas can shoo it away.

“What the fuck, Cas?”

The tips of his fingers come away wet. He inspects the liquid, rubbing at the fingers together until the shade starts to resemble red.

“It’s nothing, I just nipped myself,” Cas tries to explain. He pulls a rag out of his jacket and presses it to the skin behind his ear.

Dean points to his stubble. “Oh, you nipped yourself while not-shaving? Behind your ear?” He throws his stained hand up, the other hand steers the car to the roadside where he pulls to a stop. “Cas, what the fuck did you do?”

He turns his whole body to the man once they’re safely parked. Cas still presses the rag to the source of blood, his body presses back to the door.

“It’s just a minor cut, you ripped off the scab.”

“Stop making an idiot out of me, Cas!” Dean no longer tries to lower his voice. He can’t, not with his stomach revolting and his lungs forgetting how to pump the air in and out.

He knows what it is, he’s seen it on an illustration only two days ago. Exact same spot, on the neck behind the ear, a long, silver needle piercing through the skin, sliding into the skull.

“You’ve got it here, don’t you?”

He grabs the duffel and shifts it to his lap before Cas can react. He slides the zipper, pushes the clothes away. He doesn’t have to search long, the leather feels distinct under his fingertips.

Cas’s lips move a little, but no sound comes out. His eyes, wide, stare at Dean’s hands as he pulls the wrapping out.

“Dean, don’t,” Cas begs, but it’s too late.

The syringe rolls onto Dean’s open palm, the mix of steel and glass, huge as far as syringes go, with even bigger needle. Dean’s heart nearly stops. He liked it better when it was just a drawing.

“The grace sucker syringe, am I right?” he drawls the words through his clenched teeth. “What did you use it for? Seeing if you’ve still got some juice in you? If you’re maybe not really just a hairless monkey?”

“Dean, please,” Cas warns, instead of giving him an explanation.

“What are you gonna use it for? Tracking the rest of it?”

Cas shakes his head. “I already told you, I’m not looking for it,” he gives out a guttural growl.

Before Dean can react, the door behind Cas opens with a click and the man jumps out of the car with little grace. He shuts the door behind him.

“Great, run away!” Dean yells after him, reaching for his own handle.

But Cas doesn’t run away, not far, at least. A few feet away from the car he stands with his shoes in the wet grass. He’s turned away from Dean, head thrown back, face to the sky, hands embracing his head, fingers twisted into his hair.

Dean doesn’t grab him by his shoulder, even though he wants to. He doesn’t turn him around, though his fingers itch to bite into his lapels and force him to look Dean in the eye and tell the whole, goddamned truth. Instead, Dean stands a foot behind him, trying to control the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders as his lungs catch up to their quota. His palms curl into fists, he forces his arms to stay at his sides.

“I would tell you at home. I said I would,” Cas says, voice hushed. He lets his hands and his face down. Dark smears of blood still mark his neck. “Not like this.”

“Tell me what?” Dean demands, his voice not as loud now, as the initial wave of shock and anger slowly wash away. He still shifts his weight back and forth, as he awaits Cas’s answer. “Tell me what, Cas?” he repeats when he doesn’t get any.

“Why couldn’t you just trust me?”

“Cas–”

The man takes a deep breath. “You missed with all of your guesses,” he starts. “I knew, I had known from the start that I’ve residue of my grace inside me. And–” Finally, he turns to Dean but Dean wishes he hadn’t, not with that disappointed look in his eyes. “It’s like you didn’t even listen to me. Did you? How many times did I tell you I am not looking for my grace? I don’t want it back.”

“Then what, Cas? What is it?” Dean takes a step forward, throwing hands to the sides. “Give me something, because I’m drawing blanks here.”

He’s still holding the fucking thing that mocks him with its silver glint at the sharp end of the needle.

“What else is worth piercing your freaking brain?”

“You are!” Cas bellows, his voice cracking, his eyes drilling into Dean.

Dean’s stomach revolts, squeezed tight. This is too much. His fist clenches around the glass cylinder and he hopes to God this is the celestial superglass, or else he’s gonna end up with each muscle in his palm sliced into ribbons, he cannot loosen his grip.

“This is fucked up, Cas, and you know it!”

He wants to yank away when Cas comes close to him, wraps his palm around Dean’s wrist. But he can’t move.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Cas says, quietly, prying Dean’s fingers open one by one and plucking the tool from his hand. “You weren’t supposed to be this angry.”

“How am I supposed to not be angry, Cas?” he pleads now, more than shouts. He can’t do shit like that and tell him it’s for him and then expect him to smile and be merry.

Cas holds the syringe between his fingers, eyes fixed on it. Dean suspects he’s gonna drop it to the ground and try to smash it with the sole of his sneakers. Dean’s help him, gladly. But instead, Cas rests the thing on the top of the Impala’s trunk.

“It wasn’t that dangerous. And it wasn’t even the brain,” he explains. “A minor procedure, really.”

“You tore your throat raw, screaming.”

“I caught a cold, Dean,” he reminds him.

Dean rubs his face with his palms, unsure which version he’s supposed to believe. Could it be that after all this, he’s the one overreacting here?

“Can we, please, go home now?”

Dean crosses his arms on his chest, heels dig into the ground. “No, you’re gonna tell me now. I’ve waited and worried about you long enough.”

Cas gives out an annoyed growl, throwing his hands up and lifting his eyes up to the high heavens. Dean’s both eyebrows ride up to his hairline at the reaction.

“Okay, I’ll tell you now,” he capitulates. “But it can’t happen like this.”

“Happen?” Dean echoes, confused.

“You have to do something for me, please, stop being pissed and worried, just, stop this.” He flails his hand in Dean’s direction. “I can’t do it when you’re pissed at me. I’m already angry at myself for all this. This is not at all how I planned it.”

Dean stares at Cas like he’s zipped down his skin to reveal an alien hiding inside.

“Cas, start talking with sense and maybe I’ll worry a bit less, huh?”

“Alright.” Cas takes a breath and puts both hands on Dean’s shoulders. “Do you love me, Dean?”

Dean tips his head back, surprised. “Duh, f’course I do. I wouldn’t be going out of my mind with worry if I d—”

Cas cuts his ramble off with a kiss and that’s not concerning at all. The kiss is deep and sweet, his palm warm on the nape of Dean’s neck.

“Oh God, you’re dying, aren’t you?”

“What? I’m not dying. Dean, get yourself together.” Cas shakes his head, then finally begins his explanations. “It started really simply, you know. You might have been right about my romantic comedies,” he takes his palms off Dean to sign the quotation marks in the air, “turning me into a girl. At least in the figurative manner you had in mind.”

Dean furrows his brow. This has become one of the most confusing and emotionally demanding conversations he’s ever had the doubtful pleasure of being involved in. At least, the whole weirdness of it thawed away his anger, leaving only confusion in its wake.

“Wait, you tried to pull a rom-com on me? Would explain the miscommunication, but it doesn’t explain what’s going on here.”

“Let me finish.” Cas steps away. “It had nothing to do with all this, at first. But then you kept going on and on about moving out and I knew I’d have no choice but to agree eventually. So I found a way to protect you, which required a little bit of the residual grace that settled inside me, but is completely useless.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you had to stab yourself in the brain.”

“I already told you it wasn’t the brain, Dean. Don’t be dramatic.” Cas rolls his eyes.

“I am dramatic?” Dean throws his hands in the air, which might be undermining his words, but he couldn’t care less about it at the moment. “You’re the one sneaking out, dragging two teenaged girls into your schemes and coming back looking like death. And you call me dramatic?”

“Dean, will you listen to what I have to say to you?”

Dean presses his lips into a thin line and nods.

“That’s better. And please, let me get to the end.”

Cas takes another step back, runs fingers through his bangs to swipe it to the side.

“Frankly, I should be the one stressed here,” he begins, pulling down at the hem of his jacket. “Just so you know, there were supposed to be candles,” Cas says, reaching to the pocket. He unzips it and pulls a small object out of it, encloses it in his palm. “And your favorite kind of whiskey, the one you discovered and drank the other night,” he keeps listing. “And rhubarb pie. And I was in the middle of composing a short speech too, but I’m going to have to improvise, so—”

He’s back in Dean’s personal space, so close Dean’d have to take a few steps back with anyone other than Cas. With Cas, he freezes, sunken in his eyes, their determination and the same curious admiration that’s been there for as long as Dean can remember. Cas pushes his empty hand into his, thumb brushes along his fingers. His lips part, but no words come out. Cas tilts his head, his eyes slip from Dean’s eyes to his mouth and back up. He tries again, but he looks like he’s a moment away from choking on too many words he wants to say at once.

Dean lifts his free hand to Cas’s dumbstruck face. His palm cups Cas’s cheek, thumb rubs along his cheekbone.

“You’ve never sucked this bad at improvising,” he mutters, softly and Cas smiles. “Just get to the point.”

“You’re just so much, Dean,” he says, shifting back. “You’re too much and it’s so hard to believe you used to be nothing but another mission to me, and you were so fucking stubborn.”

Dean beams at that, but as Cas continues the brief rehash of their biggest hits, his face begins to fall.

“No,” he murmurs, to himself at first. “No, no.”

“You dragged me down from Heaven,” Cas continues, ignoring the slowly growing panic in Dean. “I couldn’t be more thankful for it.”

“Nope, Cas, come on, don’t—”

And then Cas drops to his fucking knee right before Dean. In wet grass, he kneels and smiles, eyes fixed on Dean. And Dean can’t fucking breathe.

“Dean Winchester,” he begins and Dean wants to grab the lapels of his jacket and yank him up. But he stands there, frozen, staring at Cas and at the silver glint of the ring lying on his outstretched palm. And he knows the words that’ll come next, before Cas says them. “Will you marry me?”

That is too much. Dean gasps for air, throwing his hand behind himself. He takes a few steps back, from where Cas kneels in the grass and dirt, to where the Impala offers its hood to lean on. His hand meets the cold metal and he swings his whole body against her, hoping he won’t collapse. He holds on to her frame, fingers white from the pressure, as he stares, wide-eyed, at Cas’s form, at his face that dares not move an inch.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean mutters for the lack of better words, runs his palm down his face. He’s being an asshole with his tightened stomach and his light head put before Cas, with his jeans soaking through, gravel biting into his knee.

It cannot be longer than a few seconds, though it stretches like minutes. Cas’s eyes, hopeful, sink to the ground, but his frame remains still. The ring has got a blue-ish glow to it, that might just be the moonlight. Or the nuclear power plant entrapped in a piece of silver; a part of Cas.

Both their hearts beat unsteady, nearly audible in the quiet of the night and they count down the time Dean’s got left before it all goes to hell. Cas isn’t gonna wait forever for his stupid ass to do something, anything; to say yes, or say no, laugh at Cas just to laugh it off. The choice is his and he has to make it now.

He pushes himself off the car, stands tall, even though his knees are made of cotton.

The truth is, he really does not have a choice.

“Come on, Cas.” He waves his hand in an upward gesture for Cas to follow, as he fails to bite down the nervous giggle. He clears his throat in attempt at covering it. “Get up.”

“Oh.” Cas’s raised hand falls, his shoulders slump.

“No, Cas, that’s—” Dean rushes to correct. He reaches down to help Cas stand up. “I didn’t mean— This is just ridiculous, alright?”

Cas’s shoulders shake in a soundless chuckle devoid of humor.

“You’re right,” he breathes, “this is stupid, I don’t know what I was thinking.” Cas lifts his hand, the ring held between his thumb and index finger. “I still want you to have this. It’ll hide you and protect you from pretty much everything supernatural.”

All this for a protective engagement ring. He takes it from Cas and rolls it in his palm to take a good look at it. From the distance he couldn’t see the engravings, covering both outer and inner sides of the silver ring. They’re part enochian, part something Dean doesn’t recognize. But he doesn’t need to understand them to feel the power coming from the ring. It emanates from the cool metal, buzzes against Dean’s skin.

Cas watches Dean’s moves carefully, as he slides the band on his ring finger. The moment it settles at the base of his finger, it’s like a lightning struck him and electrified his body. But he’s still standing and it wears off as quick as it came, reduced to the gentlest tingling pulsation.

The shock must have shown on his face, though, because Cas’s hands are on both sides on his face, eyes inspecting him.

“Uh, it sure is powered up,” Dean mutters rubbing his thumb on the source of the foreign sensation.

“Let me know if you feel dizzy or get a burning sensation,” Cas says and Dean’s face pulls into a grimace. “I’m joking.” Cas grins.

“And what about you? Tell me it’s got like a wide coverage or something?”

“Something like that,” Cas answers, dropping his palms and he passes Dean on his way towards the car.

“Cas, wait!” Dean grabs his sleeve. “I didn’t actually give you an answer.”

“I assumed you did.”

“You assumed wrong,” he says, feeling like an ass for his panic that led Cas to believe his answer was ‘no.’ He lifts his palm, the on with the ring, to Cas’s cheek. “I don’t remember saying I’d marry you.”

Cas looks at him surprised, at first, then his entire face brightens up. “You will?”

“Yeah, if that’s what you want.” Dean holds back a shrug. He’s not really big on wedding, or rather on the institution of marriage. Maybe because it never concerned him, he never thought it would. “I just didn’t know we needed that. I mean, how would it change anything between us? Weddings aren’t for people like us, what, you wanna stand in a city hall or a church and say vows and all?”

“Aren’t we civilians?” Cas asks and Dean doesn’t have a riposte to that. Isn’t that what he’s been nagging Cas about? White fence, barbecues and all that soccer mom jazz? “Unless you mean that we’re both male, in which case it is currently legal for two men to marry in the United States.”

“Cas, we are illegal. I’ve died like three times. You— you don’t even have the last name.”

“I believe, traditionally, the spouses share the last name.”

Dean doesn’t have a heart to remind him he needs to have the last name in the first place to be able to change it for the spouse’s. Not now when he’s just asked Dean to give him his last name. They’ll figure something out. He’ll be Cas Smith or Cas Novak or Cas Angel, it’s not like it’ll matter. It’ll only be for a few minutes, before–

“Cas Winchester,” he says, pursed lips, his arm around Cas. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

Engagement. Fucking engagement. Over a week of weirding Dean out and his heart bracing itself for the ultimate suckerpunch. Cas is so getting that intervention. And yer, there Dean is, planning the details of the wedding already. This has gotta be some wacky dream. Though, if it is, he doesn’t want to wake up from it.

“It does,” Cas admits, pressing a kiss to Dean’s jaw.

Before he tries to slip away, get back to the car, Dean wraps his fingers around the front of his coat and keeps him in place. He fingers find his jaw, steer his warm lips to his.

He doesn’t let Cas take control. He pushes against him, until he’s got him pinned between the car and his body. His fingers sink into Cas’s hair, careful not to open the small wound this time, as he deepens the kiss. It’s hungry and full of adoration and shows Cas everything he’s failed to show him in the days leading to this moment.

“I love you, Cas” he purrs against his mouth, against his jaw, against his temples that burn with growing fever.

“Love you,” Cas returns as the first drops of rain fall on his face and trail down to their joined lips.

They don’t break the kiss, until single droplets don’t turn into rush of water that threatens with a real outpour.

“Is this fuckng for real?” Dean mutters, pushing Cas into the car, not to let him get more sick than he already is. On Dean’s face blooms a wide, bright smile.

“It’s like our first kiss,” Cas reminds him, finding his lips again as soon as Dean enters the car.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, but when the vision of Cas leaving slips into his head, he pushes it away. “But this is better,” he says. “This time you’re not leaving.”

“I’m not. I’m staying,” Cas replies, his words, the right words, echo the old promise. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

Dean finds his palm, interlocks their fingers like they did back then, on the airport, with Sammy’s plane disappearing behind the cloud.

“You sure? Because if so, then you’re stuck with me for good.”


	6. Chapter 6

The key is small and light and still feels alien in Dean’s palm. Its teeth run sharp along the tip of his thumb before slipping into the hole with a seamless slide. It fits perfectly, it turns around with a click. Dean takes it in with caution, expectant of everything but that: the steel snapping in half, the doorknob turning into serpents, an invisible barricade keeping him outside like a line of salt holds back a ghost. Either of those would serve Dean well for stirring the waters.

“What’s wrong?” Sam’s voice calls out from behind and his choice of words makes something grow in Dean’s chest, something anxious and trying to force its way out like a giggle. Nothing is wrong, he wants to say, everything’s peachy. That’s kind of the point. “Dude, this stuff’s heavy.”

Dean forces the thing down with a swallow and produces a string of insults directed at himself and his stupid fright. Where did it even come from? He’s been waiting for it for six months. This is what he wanted. A white picket fence, a red roof. Windows. Windows were kind of a deal-breaker here.

And it’s not like anything inside could get to him, not with his super engagement ring. Unless it’s a falling ceiling or a murderous coffee maker.

“Dean?” Cas’s voice joins Sam’s nagging and Dean knows he’s just sealed his fate as a local drama queen.

Get your shit together, Winchester, he orders himself and presses the doorknob.

There’s a coat of dust obscuring the dark wood on the floor and the fringed edge of the carpet peaking out from the living room. On the left, there’s a bland, white wall that lets in the glow of evening sun through two windows.

“Move aside!” Sam bellows from behind, poking Dean’s spine with a corner of the cardboard box.

There’s an elbow in Dean’s side after that and his face ends up flat against the wall.

“Huck you, Ham,” he mutters into the chalky smell.

Heavy thump of the box is the only answer he gets.

“Sam.” There’s disapproval in Cas’s voice and maybe just a little bit of amusement, unbecoming of a protective fiancé. His thigh rubs against Dean’s butt in passing, like it’s the closest thing to cheering he can offer with his hands full.

So, this part of the corridor might be a bit narrow, due to the wall that hardly seems useful. It’s gonna be a pleasure to drive a hammer through it to open the living room. After years spent in the Bunker, he’s gonna need some time to get used to living in such small space. But at least he won’t have to play hide-and-seek with Cas anymore. Unless there’s a strip version of it that Dean’s not aware of.

“This wall could use a few pictures.” Sam waves at the opposite side: white, cold and empty all the way to the staircase and up to the low ceiling.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because that’s the priority.”

“What is the priority?”

It’s the kittens of dust that clutch to his shoes like literal kittens rather than the solemn look on Sam’s face that keep Dean’s knee jerk answer from rolling off his tongue. That and the fact he’s not even sure there’s a proper bed in this dump worth christening. Fuck, these first few days in this place are gonna be a nightmare, they should have cleaned it up before dragging all their junk across half the country.

They knew the house was quite a fixer-upper - most of Bobby’s safe houses were. No one on the run from demons, angels and other nasties will complain much about the cracked floors and leaky pipes, whistling inside the walls like the loneliest, timid ghosts, or the stairs that, by their looks, could offer a one way ticket to the basement with a crash landing.

In the long run it won’t do. This is supposed to be home. And it will be. Slowly but surely they’ll get it all working. And then there is the furniture that possibly remembers the founding fathers and paint that peels off the walls like a sunburn. And well, after all that is dealt with, maybe the wall could, in fact, use some pictures.

But for all that they’ll need funds first. And for food, too.

“Finding jobs, f’course,” he says. “Real jobs. Should be easy now that we have an address to put on the CVs.”

“Yeah, that should help,” Sam confirms. “You wanna go for construction again? Cars?”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll take whatever I can get. I’m a quick learner. Cars would be ideal, though.”

“I think we drove past a body shop,” Sam supplies.

“Saw it too, first place I’m hitting.”

Cas returns from the library just as Dean began to think he started unpacking and sorting books on the dusty shelves. There’s a smudge of dust on his cheek. Dean licks his thumb and rubs at Cas’s face, but the smudge only gets bigger. It doesn’t really matter, soon they’ll both get dirty in an all too literal sense.

“We’ll find something nice for Cas, too, right, Cas? Or he’ll take care of the house, feed the animals, milk the cows. We’ll make ends meet.”

“I’ll what?” Cas squints. “What cows?”

Dean lifts his fists and starts moving them with a pull-and-squeeze motion. Sam covers his mouth to hide the laughing fit, but Cas only rolls his eyes at Dean’s childish behavior.

“We’ll have to get new window sills and doorsteps,” he says, pointing out his own priorities. “These are too ragged to serve as good canvas for protection spells.”

“I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.” Dean nods. “Now, let’s get all our stuff here.”

With that, he marches out into the scorching sun on the dusty driveway to pick the rest of the boxes and bags from Sam’s car.

With three pairs of hands on deck, it doesn’t take them long to transport everything. Bounds of clothes, stacks of old books and new books and guns, smaller boxes of souvenirs and personal objects. Dean never knew he’d have so many things. He was never allowed to own that much stuff - an Impala can’t fit too much load. But then they found the closest thing they had to home and the material memoirs just began to cling to them and pile up: mostly small things – favorite cups and favorite ancient artefacts, rusty nails and the goddamned gifts from every christmas, birthday and anniversary they weren’t supposed to celebrate.

They put the boxes wherever there’s a place for them, just to free Sam’s car. Like teenagers afraid of getting caught while slothing, Dean and Cas steal each other’s kisses hidden away in the cool of the shaded rooms.

When they’re finally done, they sit on the stairs to the front porch, wiping sweat off their faces. Dean and Cas take slow seeps from their cold beers. Sam drinks soda, he still has to be good to drive, as soon as they catch their breath. Sam’s leaving, again, to start another year at Stanford before summer comes to a close.

Dean and Cas, they’ve got stuff to do. Cleaning, renovation and all that jazz. It’s a lot of work and it’ll take some time, but together, they’ll manage. Hopefully, they’ll be done with everything before next summer, maybe even spring. They haven’t set the date yet, but Cas insists on a wedding in the garden behind the house. Of course, he does.

Dean thumbs the silver band on his finger. The tiniest tingling sensation is still there and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It gets even stronger when Cas is nearby, Cas never told him why. Maybe the grace writhes to come back where it used to belong. Or maybe it mobilizes its power with one more person to protect.

For the first few weeks, the sensation was annoying and he’d even take the ring off to get rid of it. He’s used to it by now, he’d probably feel weirder without it. Especially when the white noise of power accompanying him everywhere means he’s safe. And when that white noise turns to a bumblebee-like buzzing, Dean knows he’s home.


End file.
